THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


WORDSWORTH 


/ 


'r- 


THE    "CHANDOS    CLASSICS." 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


WO  R  DS WO  RT  H 


Ittfj  fHemofr,  (ffiplanatorg  $otc0,  &c. 


LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK: 
FREDERICK    WARNE    AND    CO. 


UL 


£15 
IS15 


PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE. 


The  present  Edition  of  Wordsworth  includes  almost 
the  whole  of  his  poems  ;  the  few  exceptions  being  the 
pieces  which  appeared  in  1842,  and  (it  may  be)  some 
posthumous  ones.     All  his  finest  and  best-known  poems 

will  be  found  in  this  volume,  with  his  latest  corrections 
up  to  a  few  years  before  his  death. 


CONTENTS 


jjufanfle  poems. 

Memoir xnn  xi 

PAOE 

Extract  from  the  Conclusion  of  a  Poem,  Composed  upon  Leaving  School        .  i 

An  Evening  Walk r 

Lines  Written  while  Sailing  in  a  Boat  at  Evening 6 

Remembrance  of  Collins 7 

Descriptive  Sketches  taken  during  a  Pedestrian  Tour  among  the  Alps       .        .  7 

Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree 16 

The  Female  Vagrant T7 


v' 


^oerns  SMerrmg  to  tfje  prtotf  of  GDtJffiftoofc. 


<  My  Heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 20 

To  a  Butterfly 2° 

Foresight 2° 

Characteristics  of  a  Child  Three  Years  old 2I 

Address  to  a  Child  during  a  Boisterous  Winter  Evening  •  21 

The  Mother's  Return 21 

J^afcncy  Gray  ;  or,  Solitude „        ,        .        .  22. 

Alice  Fell ;  or  Poverty 23 

We  are  Seven    .        ...        °        ..••--••  23 

Anecdote  for  Fathers 24 

Rural'Architecture •         •  25 

ThePetLamb 2S 

The  Idle  Shepherd-Boys  ;  or  Dungeon-Ghyll-Force 26 

To  H.  C,  Six  Years  old „        .  aS 

Influence  of  Natural  Objects 2^ 

The  Longest  Day,  Addressed  to 29 


VJ 


CONTENTS. 


$oems  jpountjei  on  tf)e  &ffections. 


The  Brothers     . 

Artegal  and  Elidure 

The  Sparrow's  Nest 

To  a  Butterfly   . 

A  Farewell 

Stanzas  written  in  my  Pocket-copy  of  Thomson's  "Castle  of  Indolence' 

Louisa 

x'  Strange  Fits  of  Passion  I  have  known 
She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways    . 
I  Travelled  among  Unknown  Men    . 
Ere  with  Cold  Beads  of  Midnight  Dew     . 

To 

'Tis  said  that  Some  have  Died  for  Love    . 

A  Complaint 

To 

How  Rich  that  Forehead's  calm  Expanse . 

To 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  the  Eve  of ; 

The  Complaint  of  a  Forsaken  Indian  Woman 

The  Last  of  the  Flock 

Repentance 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret 

The  Cottager  to  her  Infant 

The  Sailor's  Mother 

The  Childless  Father 


a  New  Year 


The  Emigrant  Mother 
Vaudracour  and  Julia 
The  Idiot  Boy  . 
Michael     . 
The  Waggoner 


3° 

35 
38 
38 
38 
39 
40 
40 
4i 
4i 
4i 
4i 
42 
42 
42 
43 
43 
43 
44 
45 
46 
46 
47 
47 


49 

52 
57 
63 


^ocms  of  tfje  JFancg. 


r^ 


A  Morning  Exercise 71 

To  the  Daisy 72 

A  Whirl-blast  from  Behind  the  Hill 73 


\The  Green  Linnet 

The  Contrast 

This  Moss-lined  Shed,  green,  soft,  and  dry 
To  the  Small  Celandine  .... 
To  the  Same  Flower  .... 

The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine 


73 

73 
74 
74 
75 
75 


The  Oak  and  the  Broom 76 


CONTENTS. 


Song  for  the  Spinning  Wheel    . 

The  Redbreast  and  Butterfly     . 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves 

A  Flower  Garden 

To  the  Daisy     . 

To  the  Same  Flower 

To  a  Sky-lark   . 

To  a  Sexton       .... 

The  Coronet  of  Snowdrops 

Song  for  the  Wandering  Jew     . 

The  Seven  Sisters  ;  or,  the  Solitude  of  Binnorie 

A  Fragment— The  Danish  Boy         .... 

The  Pilgrim's  Dream  ;  or  the  Star  and  the  Glow-worm 

H;  t  from  the  Mountains  for  Certain  Political  Pretenders 

Stray  Pleasures 

On  Seeing  a  Needlecase  in  the  Form  of  *  Harp 
Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter 


$oems  of  tfje  Imagination, 


There  was  a  Boy 
To . 

To  the  Cuckoo 

A  Night-Piece  . 

Water-fowl 

Yew-trees  . 

View  from  the  Top  of  Black  Comb    . 

Nutting 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight  . 

0  Nightingale  !  Thou  surely  art 
Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower 
A  Slumber  did  my  Spirit  Seal 
The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle 
Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill 

1  WaafleredLonely  as  a  Cloud 
The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan 
Power  of  Music 
Star-Gazers 
The  Haunted  Tree    . 
Written  in  March,  while  Resting  on  the  Bridge 
Gipsies 
Beggars    . 

Sequel  to  the  Foregoing 
Ruth 


at  the  Foot  of  Brother's  Water 


4? 


riii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Laodamia •        »        •        •  99 

Her  Eyes  are  Wild,  her  Head  is  Bare 101 

--^Resolution  and  Independence 102 

The  Thorn io4 

Hart-Leap  Well 106 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle 109 

The  Echo "2 

To  a  Skylark «2 

It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  Heaven  hath  Flown 112 

French  Revolution "3 

The  Pass  of  Kirkstone "3 

Cines-Composed  a  few  miles  above  Tin  tern  Abbey^ 115 

Peter  BeiTr^Ta^-^__  ....        • 117 


JWtSttUatuous  bonnets. 


To 129 

Nuns  Fret  not  at  their  Convent's  Narrow  Room 129 

Written  in  very  Early  Youth 129 

Admonition .  13° 

Beloved  Vale 130 

Pelion  and  Ossa  Flourish  Side  by  Side 130 

There  is  a  Little  Unpretending  Rill 130 

Her  only  Pilot  the  Soft  Breeze  the  Boat 130 

The  Fairest,  Brightest  Hues  of  Ether  Fade 130 

Upon  the  Sight  of  a  Beautiful  Picture 131 

Why,  Minstrel,  these  Untuneful  Murmurings —        .        .        . '  .        .  131 

Aerial  Rock— whose  Solitary  Brow 13  * 

To  Sleep 131 

To  Sleep 131 

To  Sleep 131 

The  Wild  Duck's  Nest 132 

Written  upon  a  Blank  Leaf  in  "  The  Complete  Angler  " 132 

To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer 132 

On  the  Detraction  which  Followed  the  Publication  of  a  Certain  Poem       .        .  132 

To  the  River  Derwent 132 

Composed  in  one  of  the  Valleys  of  Westmoreland  on  Easter  Sunday  .        .  133 

Grief,  thou  hast  Lost  an  Ever-ready  Friend 133 

ToS.H 133 

Decay  of  Piety *33 

Composed  on  the  Eve  of  the  Marriage  of  a  Friend,  in  the  Vale  of  Grasmere      .   133 

From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo 134 

From  the  Same x34 

From  the  Same.  To  the  Supreme  Being =34 


CONTENTS.  b 

PAGH 

Surprised  by  Joy— Impatient  as  the  Wind 134 

Methought  I  Saw  the  Footsteps  of  a  Throne      .......  134 

Weak  is  the  Will  of  Man,  his  Judgment  Blind  .......  134 

Jt  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and  Free 135 

Where  Lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  Go  ? 135 

With  Ships  the  Sea  was  Sprinkled  Far  and  Nigh 135 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us  ;  Late  and  Soon  .....  135 

A  Volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  Earth  are  Found 135 

How  Sweet  it  is  when  Mother  Fancy  Rocks 135 

Personal  Talk , 136 

To  R.  B.  Haydon,  Esq 136 

From  the  Dark  Chambers  of  Dejection  Freed 136 

Fair  Prime  of  Life  !  were  it  Enough  to  Gild 137 

I  Heard  (Alas  !  'twas  only  in  a  Dream) 137 

Retirement J37 

To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert     .........  137 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  Frowned 137 

Not  Love,  nor  War,  nor  the  Tumultuous  Swell        ......  137 

While  not  a  Leaf  seems  Faded, — while  the  Fields 138 

How  Clear,  how  Keen,  how  Marvellously  Bright 138 

Composed  During  a  Storm 138 

To  a  Snowdrop         .  138 

Composed  a  Few  Days  after  the  Foregoing 138 

To  Lady  Beaumont *39 

To  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther 139 

There  is  a  Pleasure  in  Poetic  Pains 139 

The  Shepherd  Looking  Eastward,  Softly  Said  .......  139 

Hail,  Twilight,  Sovereign  of  One  Peaceful  Hour  ! 139 

With  how  Sad  Steps,  O  Moon,  Thou  Climb'st  the  Sky  r  140 

Even  as  the  Dragon's  Eye  that  Feels  the  Stress         .*.....  140 

Mark  the  Concentrated  Hazels  that  Inclose 140 

Captivity Mc 

Brook  !  whose  Society  the  Poet  Seeks 140 

Composed  on  the  Banks  of  a  Rocky  Stream .140 

Pure  Element  of  Waters  1  Wheresoe'er 141 

Malham  Cove I4I 

Gordale J4r 

The  Monument  commonly  called  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters,  near  the 

River  Eden I4I 

Composed  after  a  Journey  across  the  Hamilton  Hills,  Yorkshire       .        .         .  141 

These  Words  were  Uttered  as  in  Pensive  Mood *42 

Earth  has  not  Anything  to  Show  more  Fair i42 

Ye  Sacred  Nurseries  of  Blooming  Youth I42 

Shame  on  this  Faithless  Heart  that  Could  Allow 142 

Recollection  of  the  Portrait  of  King  Henry  VIII.  Trinity  Lodge,  Cambridge   .  142 
On  the  Death  of  His  Majesty  George  II I x43 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Fame  tells  of  Groves — from  England  Far  Away 143 

A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire 143 

Composed  among  the  Ruins  of  a  Castle  in  North  Wales 143 

To  the  Lady  E.  B.  and  the  Hon.  Miss  P. 143 

To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil's  Bridge,  North  Wales 144 

Though  Narrow  be  that  Old  Man's  Cares,  and  Near 144 

Strange  Visitation  !  at  Jemima's  lip 144 

When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  Isle       .     • ,         .  144 

While  They,  Her  Playmates  Once,  Light-hearted  Tread  .....  144 

To  the  Cuckoo ...  145 

The  Infant  M M ,         .  145 

To  Rotha  Q ,        .  145 

To 145 

In  My  Mind's  Eye  a  Temple,  like  a  Cloud         ....,,.  145 
If  these  Brief  Records,  by  the  Muses'  Art 146 


Jttemortals  of  a  ®out  in  Sfccotlantr. 

1803. 

Departure  from  the  Vale  of  Grasmere 146 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns,  after  Visiting  the  Grave  of  their  Father  ....  146 

Ellen  Irwin,  or  the  Braes  of  "lirtle    .,...,...  147 

To  a  Highland  Girl 147 

Glen-Almain,  or  the  Narrow  Glen 148 

Stepping  Westward. 149 

"H^flie  Solitary  Reaper .        ...........  149 

^Address  to  Kilchum  Castle  upon  Loch  Awe 149 

Rob  Roy's  Grave 150 

Composed  at Castle 151 

Yarrow  Unvisited 151 

In  the  Pass  of  Killicrankie 152 

The  Matron  of  Jedburgh  and  her  Husband 152 

Fly,  some  Kind  Spirit,  Fly  to  Grasmere-dale 153 

The  Blind  Highland  Boy 153 


immortals  of  a  ®our  fn  &cotIan& 
1814. 

The  Brownie's  Cell „        .        .  156 

Composed  at  Corra  Linn IS7     I 

Effusion  in  the  Pleasure-Ground  on  the  Banks  of  the  Bran,  near  Dunkelc^       .  158 
Yarrow  Visited 159 


CONTENTS. 


« 


$ocms  on  trjc  Naming  of  places. 

PAGE 

It  was  an  April  Morning  ;  Fresh  and  Clear 160 

To  Joanna 1^>I 

There  is  an  Eminence, — of  these  our  Hills 162 

A  Narrow  Girdle  of  Rough  Stones  and  Crags 162 

ToM.H l63 

When,  to  the  Attractions  of  the  Busy  World     .  ....  163 


inscriptions. 


The  Embowering  Rose,  the  Acacia,  and  the  Pine 
Oft  is  the  Medal  Faithful  to  its  Trust 
Ye  Lime-trees,  Ranged  before  this  Hallowed  Urn 
Beneath  Yon  Eastern  Ridge:  the  Craggy  bound 
Rude  is  this  Edifice,  and  Thou  hast  Seen  . 
Stay,  Bold  Adventurer ;  Rest  a  while  thy  Limbs 
Stranger  !  this  Hillock  of  Mis-shapen  Stones 
Hopes  What  are  They?— Beads  of  Morning 
Pause,  Traveller  !  Whosoe'er  Thou  be 
Troubled  Long  with  Warring  Notions 
Not  Seldom  Clad  in  Radiant  Vest     . 
Stranger  !  this  Shapeless  Heap  of  Stones  and  Earth 


165 
165 
16S 
166 
166 
166 
167 
167 
168 
168 
168 
168 


bonnets  Detficatett  to  Uibcttg. 


\ 


Fair  Star  of  Evening,  Splendour  of  the  West    . 

Is  it  a  Reed  that's  Shaken  by  the  Wind     . 

Jones  !  While  from  Calais  Southward  You  and  I 

I  Grieved  for  Bonaparte,  with  a  Vain 

Festivals  Have  I  Seen  that  were  not  Names 

Once  did  She  Hold  the  Gorgeous  East  in  Fee  . 

The  Voice  of  Song  from  Distant  Lands  shall  Call 

Toussaint,  the  most  Unhappy  Man  of  Men 

Driven  from  the  Soil  of  France,  a  Female  Came 

Here,  on  our  Native  Soil  we  Breathe  Once  More 

Inland,  Within  a  Hollow  Vale  I  Stood      . 

Two  Voices  are  There  !  One  is  of  the  Sea 

O  Friend  \  I  Know  not  which  Way  I  Must  Look 

Milton  !  Thou  Shouldst  be  Living  at  this  Hour 

Great  Men  have  been  Among  Us  ;  Hands  that  Penned 


169 
169 
169 
169 
170 
170 
170 
170 
170 
171 
171 
171 
171 
171 
171 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 


It  is  not  to  be  Thought  of  that  the  Flood 

When  I  have  Borne  in  Memory  what  has  Tamed 

One  Might  Believe  that  Natural  Miseries  . 

There  is  a  Bondage  Worse,  Far  Worse  to  Bear 

These  Times  Touch  Moneyed  Worldlings  with  Dismay 

England  !  the  Time  is  Come  when  Thou  shouldst  Wean 

When  Looking  on  the  Present  Face  of  Things  . 

Vanguard  of  Liberty,  Ye  Men  of  Kent 

Shout,  for  a  Mighty  Victory  is  Won 

Another  Year  !  another  Deadly  Blow 

Ode — Who  Rises  on  the  Banks  of  Seine   . 

A  Roman  Master  Stands  on  Grecian  Ground    . 

When,  Far  and  Wide,  Swift  as  the  Beams  of  Morn 

Clarkson  !  It  was  an  Obstinate  Hill  to  Climb    . 

High  Deeds,  O  Germans,  are  to  Come  from  You 

Clouds,  Lingering  Yet,  Extend  in  Solid  Bars    . 

Go  Back  to  Antique  Ages,  if  Thine  Eyes  . 

Not  'Mid  the  World's  Vain  Objects  !  that  Enslave 

I  Dropped  My  Pen  ;  and  Listened  to  the  Wind 

Of  Mortal  Parents  is  the  Hero  Born 

Advance — Come  Forth  from  Thy  Tyrolean  Ground 

The  Land  We  from  Our  Fathers  Had  in  Trust 

Alas  !  What  Boots  the  Long,  Laborious  Quest 

And  is  it  Among  Rude  Untutored  Dales 

O'er  the  Wide  Earth  on  Mountain  and  on  Plain 

On  the  Final  Submission  of  the  Tyrolese  . 

Say,  what  is  Honour  ? — 'Tis  the  Finest  Sense    . 

The  Martial  Courage  of  a  Day  is  Vain     . 

Call  not  the  Royal  Swede  Unfortunate     . 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  Paid  . 

Is  there  a  Power  that  can  Sustain  and  Cheer    . 

Ah  !  where  is  Palafox  ?  Nor  Tongue  nor  Pen  . 

In  Due  Observance  of  an  Ancient  Rite 

Yet,  yet,  Biscayans  !  we  must  Meet  our  Foes    . 

Oak  of  Guernica !  Tree  of  Holier  Power  . 

We  can  Endure  that  He  should  Waste  our  Lands 

Avaunt  all  Specious  Pliancy  of  Mind 

O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  Relied    . 

Hunger,  and  Sultry  Heat,  and  Nipping  Blast    . 

They  Seek,  are  Sought ;  to  Daily  Battle  Led    . 

The  Power  of  Armies  is  a  Visible  Thing  . 

Here  Pause  :  the  Poet  Claims  at  Least  this  Praise 

Humanity,  Delighting  to  Behold 

Ye  Storms,  Resound  the  Praises  of  your  King  . 

Abruptly  Paused  the  Strife  ;— the  Field  throughout 

Now  that  all  Hearts  are  Glad,  all  Faces  Bright 

Dsar  Reliques  !  from  a  Pit  of  Vilest  Mould 


CONTENTS.  rii, 

TACE 

Intrepid  Sons  of  Albion  1  not  by  You 182 

Oh  !  for  a  Kindling  Touch  of  that  Pure  Flame 182 

The  Bard,  whose  Soul  is  Meek  as  Dawning  Day 182 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  Temples  Rung 183 

Ode — When  the  Soft  Hand  of  Sleep  had  Closed  the  Latch        ....  183 

Thanksgiving  Ode 184 

Jilcmortals  of  a  ^our  on  tfje  Continent. 
1820. 

Fish-Women  on  Landing  at  Calais 190 

Bruges 190 

Bruges 191 

After  Visiting  the  Field  of  Waterloo 191 

Scenery  between  Namur  and  Liege 191 

Aix-la-Chapelle 19^ 

In  the  Cathedral  at  Cologne 192 

In  a  Carriage,  upon  the  Banks  of  the  Rhine 192 

Hymn,  for  the  Boatmen  as  they  Approach  the  Rapids,  under  the  Castle  of 

Heidelberg 192 

The  Source  of  the  Danube 192 

Memorial  near  the  Outlet  of  the  Lake  of  Thun 193 

Composed  in  One  of  the  Catholic  Cantons  of  Switzerland         ....  193 

On  Approaching  the  Staub-Bach,  Lauterbrunnen 193 

The  Fall  of  the  Aar. — Handec .  194 

Scene  on  the  Lake  of  Brientz 194 

Engelberg,  the  Hill  of  Angels 194 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snow 194  L 

Effusion  in  Presence  of  the  Painted  Tower  of  Tell,  at  Altore     ....  195  ' 

The  Town  of  Schwytz 195 

On  Hearing  the  "  Ranz  des  Vaches  "  on  the  Top  of  the  Pass  of  St.  Gothard    .  195 
The  Church  of  San  Salvador,  seen  from  the  Lake  of  Lugano    ....  195 

Fort  Fuentes 196 

The  Italian  Itinerant,  and  the  Swiss  Goatherd 197 

The  Last  Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci 198 

The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun.     1820 198 

The  Three  Cottage  Girls 199 

The  Column,  intended  by  Bonaparte  for  a  Triumphal  Edifice  in  Milan    .         .  200 

Stanzas  Composed  in  the  Simplon  Pass 200 

Echo  upon  the  Gemmi 200 

Processions.     Suggested  on  a  Sabbath  Morning  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny       .  201 

Elegiac  Stanzas         .  202 

Sky- Prospect.     From  the  Plain  of  France 203 

On  being  Stranded  near  the  Harbour  of  Boulogne 203 

After  Landing.     The  Valley  of  Dover 203 

Desultory  Stanzas,  upon  Receiving  the  Preceding  Sheets  from  the  Press  .        .  203 
To  Eiup.mrise   .        .  •  2°S 


CONTENTS. 


dBcckstasttcal  Sbfcttcfjes. 


Introduction 

Conjectures 

Trepidation  of  the  Duuids 

Druidical  Excommunication 

Uncertainty 

Persecution 

Recovery 


Temptations  from  Roman  Refinements     . 

Dissensions 

Struggle  of  the  Britons  against  the  Barbarians 

Saxon  Conquest 

Monastery  of  Old  Bangor 

Casual  Incitement 

Glad  Tidings 
Paulinus  . 
Persuasion 
Conversion 
Apolug7  . 
*  Primitive  Saxon  Clergy  .... 
Other  Influences  o        - 

Seclusion 

Reproof 

Saxon  Monasteries,  and  Lights  and  Shades  of 

Missions  and  Travels         .... 

Alfred 

His  Descendants 

Influence  Abused 

Danish  Conquests 

Canute 

The  Norman  Conquest 

The  Council  of  Clermont 

Crusades  ... 

Richard  I. 

An  Interdict 

Papal  Abuses    . 

Scene  in  Venice 

Papal  Dominion       . 


PART  L 

FROM  THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  CHRISTIANITY  INTO  BRITAIN, 
TO  THE  CONSUMMATION  OF  THE  PAPAL  DOMINION. 

PAGE 
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.  207 
.  208 
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.  2IO 
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•  213 

•  213 

•  213 
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•  213 
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■  214 
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.  SI5 
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1  215 


the  Religion 


CONTENTS.  xv 


TART  II. 

TO    THE   CLOSE    OF   THE   TROUBLES    IN    THE    REIGN    OF 
CHARLES  I. 

PAGE 

Cistertian  Monastery 215 

Monks  and  Schoolmen 216 

Other  Benefits ■ixni        .......  216 

Crusaders .         - „ 216 

Transubstantiation 216 

Waldenses         . 217 

Archbishop  Chicheley  to  Henry  V.    .........  217 

Wars  of  York  ana  Lancaster 217 

Wicliffe 217 

Corruptions  of  the  Higher  Clergy      .........  218 

Abuse  of  Monastic  Power ,...'.  218 

Monastic  Voluptuousness  ...........  218 

Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries 218 

Saints 219 

The  Virgin  .         .  . 219 

Apology 219 

Imaginative  Regrets    .... 219 

Reflections  .  219 

Translation  of  the  Bible ...  220 

The  Point  at  Issue .  220 

Edward  VI. 220 

Edward  Signing  the  Warrant  for  the  Execution  of  Joan  of  Kent      .         .  .  220 

Revival  of  Popery 220 

Latimer  and  Ridley  ..........  .  221 

Cranmer 221 

General  View  of  the  Troubles  of  the  Reformation  ....  .  221 

English  Reformers  in  Exile .221 

Elizabeth 222 

Eminent  Reformers    ...........  .  222 

Distractions        ......  .....  222 

Gunpowder  Plot         ......  .....  223 

Illustration 223 

Troubles  of  Charles  the  First      ...  ......  223 

Laud .  223 

Afflictions  of  England 224 

PART  III. 

FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIMES 

I  ww  the  Figure  of  a  Lovelv  Mafrl ■  a?a 

Patriotic  Sympathies  ...  a»4 


jtvi 

CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Charles  the  Second    . 

...... 

.  224 

Latitudinarianism 

. 

.  224 

Clerical  Integrity 

•  225 

Persecution  of  the  Scottish  Covenanters    .                 

•  225 

Acquittal  of  the  Bishops     . 

.  225 

William  the  Third     . 

.  225 

Obligations  of  Civil  to  Religious 

Liberty    ...          ... 

■  225 

Down  a  Swift  Stream,  thus  far,  a  Bold  Design  ..... 

•  225 

Walton's  Book  of  Lives     . 

.  226 

Sacheverell         .... 

.  226 

Places  of  Worship     . 

.  226 

Pastoral  Character    . 

.                .                .                .                c 

.  226 

The  Liturgy      .... 



.  22-; 

Baptism    ..... 

, 

.  227 

Catechising       .... 

......... 

.  227 

Confirmation     .... 

•         •         1        .».,,..       • 

.  227 

Sacrament          .... 

.        .        o        .        .        .        . 

.  228 

Rural  Ceremony 

, 

.  228 

Regrets 

•            a            m            «             . 

.  228 

Mutability          .... 

•             ••••- 

.  228 

Old  Abbeys       .... 

.  228 

Emigrant  French  Clergy    . 

.  229 

Congratulation  .... 

,             .              .             .             . 

.  229 

New  Churches   .... 

,.»..-. 

.  229 

Church  to  be  Erected        .         . 

.              .              .              .              . 

.  229 

New  Church-yard 

.  230 

Cathedrals,  &c. 

■             .             «             t                           <■ 

.  230 

Inside  of  King's  College  Chapel 

,  Cambridge     .         .         .         .         . 

•  230 

Ejaculation        .... 

...                           . 

•  231 

Conclusion         .... 

♦ 

.  231 

The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone  ;  or 

,  the  Fate  of  the  Norton?. 

,  232 

The  Prioress's  Tale.    (From  Chaucer)       ...... 

.  254 

£Ije  Ifttbcr  Butfoon. 

A  SERIES    OF  SONNETS. 


The  Minstrels  Played  their  Christmas  Tune 
Not  Envying  Shades  which  haply  yet  may  Throw 
Child  of  the  Clouds !  Remote  from  every  Taint 
How  shall  I  Paint  Thee? — Be  this  Naked  Stone 
Take,  Cradled  Nursling  of  the  Mountain,  Take 
Sole  Listener,  Duddon  !  to  the  Breeze  that  Played 
Ere  yet  our  Course  was  Graced  with  Social  Trees 


. 

.  258 

.  259 

. 

,  259 

. 

•  259 

CONTENTS. 


"  Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  Breathing  Rrwo ! 

What  Aspect  bore  the  Man  who  Roved  or  Fled 

The  Struggling  Rill  insensibly  is  Grown    . 

Not  so  that  Pair  whose  Youthful  Spirits  Dance 

No  Fiction  was  it  of  the  Antique  Age 

On,  Loitering  Muse — the  Swift  Stream  Chides  us  on 

Hail  to  the  Fields — with  Dwellings  Sprinkled  o'er 

0  Mountain  Stream  !  the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot 
From  this  Deep  Chasm — where  Quivering  Sunbeams 
Such  Fruitless  Questions  may  not  long  Beguile 
A  Dark  Plume  fetch  me  from  yon  Blasted  Yew 
Sacred  Religion,  "  Mother  of  Form  and  Fear" 
My  Frame  hath  often  Trembled  with  Delight    . 
The  Old  Inventive  Poets,  had  they  Seen   . 
Whence  that  Low  Voice  ? — a  Whisper  from  the  Heart 
A  Love-lorn  Maid,  at  some  Far-distant  Time    . 
Sad  Thoughts,  Avaunt ! — the  Favour  of  the  Yeai 
Mid-noon  is  Past ; — upon  the  Sultry  Mead 
Methinks  'twere  no  Unprecedented  Feat   . 
Return,  Content  !  for  Fondly  I  Pursued    . 
Fallen,  and  Diffused  into  a  Shapeless  Heap 
[  rose,  while  yet  the  Cattle,  Heat-opprest 
No  Record  tells  of  Lance  opposed  to  Lance 
Who  Swerves  from  Innocence,  who  makes  Divorce 
The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  Pilgnm's  Eye    . 
Not  Hurled  Precipitous  from  Steep  to  Steep 
Rut  Here  no  Cannon  Thunders  to  the  Gale 

1  Thought  of  Thee,  my  Partner  and  my  Guide 
Notes  to  Sonnets 


. 


Pla/ 


269 

2? 
26^ 

269 

26if 

261 

26f 

2^ 

261 
262 
262 
262 
262 
262 
263 
263 
263 
263 

26a 
264 
264 
264 
264 
264 
265 
265 
265 
265 

^66 


; 


^oems  of  Sbcnttnum  anti  Reflection. 

XExpostulation  ana  Reply   ,  .  274 

^  The  Tables  Turned  .....         .......  274 

Written  in  Germany,  on  one  of  the  Coldest  Days  of  the  Century  .  275 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior .  275 

A  Poet's  Epitaph .  276 

To  the  Spade  of  a  Friend 277 

\^To  my  Sister     .............  277 

To  a  Young  Lady,  who  had  been  Reproached  for  taking  Long  Walks  in  the 

.  Country ,      t 278 

^Tlines  written  in  Early  Spring    ..........  278 

'-'Simon  Lee,  the  Old  Huntsman  .........  278 

Incident  Characteristic  of  a  Favourite  Dog ,         .  279 

Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  Same  Dog  \  .        •        •  280 


XVH1 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


If  Nature,  for  a  Favourite  Child 28° 

The  Two  April  Mornings 

The  Fountain.     A  Conversation 

Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  "Ossian" 

Vernal  Ode       ....  •  

Ode  to  Lycoris 

To  the  Same 

Fidelity 

To  the  Lady ,  on  Seeing  the  Foundation  Preparing  for  the  Erection  of 

Chapel,  Westmoreland 

On  the  Same  Occasion 2^7 

The  Force  of  Prayer 

A  Fact,  and  an  Imagination  ;  or,  Canute  and  Alfred.        .... 
A  Little  Onward  Lend  thy  Guiding  Hand         ...... 

September,  1819 « 

Upon  the  Same  Occasion ^ 

Tne  Pillar  of  Trajan 

Dion  .....         ....«••• 

Memory    ....»■••»•  - 

Ode  to  Duty 


281 
281 

282 
283 
284 
285 
286 

286 


289 
289 
290 
290 
291 
292 
294 
294 


^oems  Staring  to  tfc  $crtob  of  <©to  &ge. 


..The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar  .... 
The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale    .... 

The  Small  Celandine 

The  Two  Thieves  ;  or,  the  Last  Stage  of  Avarice 
Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay 


296 
299 
301 
302 
303 


<Bpttapi)S  anfc  lEIcgtac  ^oems 


Perhaps  some  Needful  Service  of  the  State 

0  Thou  w'X)  Movest  Onward  with  a  Mind 
There  never  Breathed  a  Man  who  when  his  Lift- 
Destined  to  War  from  very  Infancy  . 

Pause,  Courteous  Spirit  ! — Balbi  Supplicates 

Loud  is  the  Vale  !  the  Voice  is  up  , 

To  Public  Notice,  with  Reluctance  Strong 

1  was  thy  Neighbour  Once,  thou  Rugged  Pile  1 
Sweet  Flower  !  Belike  one  Day  to  have 

Once  I  could  Hail  (howe'er  Serene  the  Sky^ 
Oh,  for  a  Dirge!  But  why  Complain? 


.  304 

•  3°4 

•  30S 

•  3°S 

•  3°6 

•  307 

•  3°7 
.  308 

•  3°9 

•  3IQ 

•  3" 


CONTENTS.  xix 

V Invocation  to  the  Earth     .        , 3I3 
Ode— Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood        .  313  — 
Observations  Prefixed  to  the  Second  Edition  of  Several  of  the  Foregoing  Poems, 

Published  under  the  Title  of "  Lyrical  Ballads"         .        .                 .         .318 
Appendix  on  Poetic  Diction 331 


{jrfje  lExcursfen. 

Preface  to  the  Edition  of  1814 

Book     I. — The  Wanderer 

II. — The  Solitary 

III. — Despondency 

IV. — Despondency  Corrected       ...... 

V. — The  Pastor 4J^E 

VI. — The  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains        .....  434 
VII. — The  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains — (Continued)  .         .  453 

VIII. — The  Parsonage 471 

IX. — Discourse  of  the  Wanderer,  and  an  Evening  Visit  to  the  Lake    .  482, 

Notes 491- 

Essay  upon  Epitaphs 50a 

■i- 
POEMS  COMPOSED  DURING  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  AND  ON  I 
THE  ENGLISH   BORDER,  IN  THE  AUTUMN  OF  1831. 

Yarrow  Revisited 507 

Sonnets : — 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  from  Abbotsford,  for  Naples  .         .  508, 
A  Place  of  Burial  in  the  South  of  Scotland        ......  508 

On  the  Sight  of  a  Manse  in  the  South  of  Scotland     .....  508 

Composed  in  Roslin  Chapel,  during  a  Storm      ......  509 

The  Trossachs    ............  509, 

The  Pibroch's  Note,  discountenanced  or  mute 509 

Composed  in  the  Glen  of  Loch  Etive  .......  509 

Eagles,  composed  at  Dunollie  Castle,  in  the  Bay  of  Oban  ....  510 

In  the  Sound  of  Mull         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .510 

At  Tyndrum        .............  510 

The   Earl  of  Breadalbane's   ruined  Mansion,   and  Family  Burial- Place, 

near  Killin 510 

Rest  and  be  Thankful,  at  the  Head  of  Glencroe 510ft 

Highland  Hut 511 

The  Brownie       ............  5ri 

To  the  Planet  Venus,  an  Evening  Star.    Composed  at  Loch  Lomond      .  511 

Bothwell  Castle SIXM 

Picture  of  Daniel  in  the  Lion's  Den,  at  Hamilton  Palace  ,  _    .  .  512 


CONTENTS. 


St.  Goar,  upon  the  Rhine 


The  Avon,  a  Feeder  of  the  Annan      . 

Suggested  by  a  View  from  an  Eminence  in  Inglevvood  Forest 

Hart's-horn  Tree,  near  Penrith 

Countess's  Pillar 

Roman  Antiquities.     (From  the  Roman  Station  at  Old  Penrith) 

Apology  for  the  foregoing 

The  Highland  Broach 

The  Egyptian  Maid  ;  or,  the  Romance  of  the  Water  Lily 

Ode,  composed  on  May  Morning 

To  May 

Inscription 

Elegiac  Musings  in  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton  Hall,  the  Seat  of  the  late  Sir 

George  Beaumont,  Bart.     . 

Epitaph 

Inscription  intended  for  a  Stone  in  the  Grounds  of  Rydal  Mount 
Written  in  an  Album         .... 

Incident  at  Bruges 

A  Jewish  Family.     (In  a  small  valley  opposite 
Devotional  Incitements     .... 
The  Armenian  Lady's  Love 
The  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

Presentiments 

■Sonnets  : — 

The  Poet  and  the  caged  Turtledove  . 

Chatsworth  !  thy  stately  Mansion 

Desponding  Father  !  mark  this  altered  Bough   . 

Roman  Antiquities  discovered  "at  Bishopstone,  Herefordshire 

St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury  . 
The  Russian  Fugitive        .... 
Sonnets  : — 

Why  art  thou  silent 

Four  fiery  Steeds  impatient  of  the  Rein 

To  the  Author's  Portrait    . 
Gold  and  Silver  Fishes,  in  a  Vase      . 
Liberty.     (Sequel  to  the  above) 
Evening  Voluntaries  : — 

Calm  is  the  fragrant  Air,  and  loth  to  lose 

Not  in  the  lucid  Intervals  of  Life 

By  the  Side  of  Rydal  Mere 

Soft  as  a  Cloud  in  yon  blue  Ridge     . 

The  Leaves  that  rustled  on  this  Oak-crowned  Hill 

The  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire 

By  the  Sea-side 

The  Labourer's  Noon-day  Hymn      . 
A  Wren's  Nest 


CONTENTS.  xxi 

fAUlc 

South  (s  composed  during  ;i  Tour  in  Scotland  in  1833       „  .         .541 

_  Adieu  I  Rydalian  Laurels  !  that  have  grown cai 

-hould  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through  this  Isle  .         .         .         .541 

;"  They  ^failed  Thee  merry  England,  in  old  Time r*i 

To  thVRiver  Greta,  near  Keswick .         .        •    ^41 

To  the  Riser  Derwent 54a 

In  Sight  of  the  Town  of  t'oekermouth      .  e,2 

"-'AddresS  from  tli j  Spint  of  Cocke; QWUth  Castle r,2 

Nun's  Well,  Brigham  ...  •••...  542 

To  a  Friend  (on  the  Banks  of  the  Derwent) <-.., 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots  (landing  at  the  Mouth  of  the  Derwent,  Workington)  543 
In  the  Channel,  between  the  Coast  of  Cumberland  and  the  Isle  of  Man   .  543 

At  Sea  off  the  Isle  of  Man ;  c-40 

Desire  we  past  Illusions  to  recall  ?.......,  544 

On  entering  Douglas  Bay,  Isle  of  Man 544 

By  the  Sea-shore,  Isle  of  Man 1-44 

sle  of  Man C44 

The  Retired  Marine  Officer,  Isle  of  Man    . ^44 

By  a  Retired  Mariner  (a  Friend  of  the  Author)  .         .         .         .         .         .   rir 

At  Bala-sala,  Isle  of  Man.    (Supposed  to  be  written  by  a  Friend)        .        .  54c 

Tynwald  Hill S4S 

Despond  who  will — /  heard  a  voice  exclaim etc 

In  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  Ailsa  Crag.     (July  17,  1833) 546 

On  the  Frith  of  Clyde.     (In  a  Steam-boat) 546 

On  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle e<6 

The  Dunolly  Eagle 546 

Cave  of  Staffa 547 

Cave  of  Staffa 547 

Cave  of  Staffa 347 

Flowers  on  the  Top  of  the  Pillars  at  the  Entrance  of  the  Cave    .       ' .        .  547 

On  to  Iona  !     What  can  she  afford 547 

Iona.     (Upon  landing) 548 

The  Black  Stones  of  Iona 548 

Homeward  we  turn.     Isle  of  Columba's  Cell       .        .        .        .  .  548 

Greenock 548 

"There  !"  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  Pride 548 

Fancy  and  Tradition 545 

The  River  Eden,  Cumberland      .........  549 

Monument  pf  Mrs.  Howard  (by  Nollekens)  in  Wetheral  Church,  near  Corby  549 
Tranquillity  !  the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou  ...  ...  549 

Nunnery MB  '  5S° 

Steam-boats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways  / 550 

Lowther  !  in  thy  majestic  Pile  are  seen        .  .  ^0 

To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale 550 

To  Cordelia  M ,  Ilallsteads.  Ullswater  .       .  ,  551 

Conclusion  e  |*  V       .,  •  .  551 


CONTENTS. 


Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  the  Countess  of ,  Nov.  5,  1834 

The  Somnambulist 

To  ,  upon  the  Birth  of  her  first-born  Child,  March,  1833 

The  Warning,  a  Sequel  to  the  foregoing.    March,  1833 
tf  this  great  World  of  Joy  and  Pain   .... 
.Sonnet,  composed  after  reading  a  Newspaper  of  the  Day  , 
Loving  and  Liking  :  irregular  Verses  addressed  to  a  Child 
St.  Bees,  suggested  in  a  Steam-boat  off  St.  Bees'  Heads 
Sonnets : — 

Deplorable  his  Lot  who  Tills  the  Ground   . 

The  Vaudois 

Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  Mountain-springs 
The  Redbreast  (suggested  in  a  Westmoreland  Cottage) 

To  

Rural  Illusions 

This  Lawn,  &c 

Thought  on  the  Seasons 

Humanity.     Written  in  the  Year  1829 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Portrait  from  the  Pencil  of  F.  Stone  ■ 

The  foregoing  Subject  resumed  .        .         .   , 

Stanzas  on  the  Power  of  Sound  . 

To  the  Moon.     (Composed  by  the  Sea-side) 

To  the  Moon.     (Rydal) 

Impromptu  . 

Sonnet. 

Elegiac  Pieces 

Translations  of  Epitaphs 

Notes   .... 


Appendix  : — 

Preface  to  the  Edition  of  1815 
Essay  Supplementary  to  the  Preface 


Mi 


! 


GE 
551 

552 

554 

555 
557 
557 
557 
558 

56i 

561 
561 
561 

,  562 

563 

•  563 
.  563 

■  563 
S65 

.  567 

•  567 

•  57c 

•  57i 
.  572 

-  572 

•  572 

■  574 

-  577 


.583 
•  593 


MEMOIR, 


ILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  the  most  distinguished  philosophical  poet 
that  England  has  produced,  was  born  at  Cockcrmouth,  in  Cumber 
land,  on  the  7th  of  April,  1770. 

The  family  of  Wordsworth  appears  to  have  been  of  some  little  antiquity, 
as  members  of  it  are  found  settled  at  Fennistone,  near  Doncaster,  so  far  back  as 
the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  and  the  poet  himself  had  in  his  possession  an  antique  oak 
chest,  or  almery,  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIIL  (1525),  on  which  was  recorded,  in 
curious  carving,  some  generations  of  the  family  pedigree.  But  the  branch  from 
which  he  sprang  was  originally  planted  at  Falthwaite,  near  Stainborough,  and 
removed  thence  to  Sockbridge,  in  Westmoreland,  about  the  beginning  of  the 
last  century. 

The  poet's  father,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  man  of  vigorous  mental  powers  and 
of  some  eloquence,  was  an  attorney,  and  held  the  appointment  of  law-agent  to  the 
Earl  of  Lonsdale.  A.m  Cookson,  the  poet's  mother,  was  the  daughter  of  a  mercer 
of  Penrith,  and  was  descended,  on  her  mother's  side,  from  a  very  ancient  family — 
the  Crackanthorpes — who  had  been  seated  at  Newbiggen  Hall,  in  Westmoreland, 
for  more  than  five  hundred  years.  She  appears  to  have  been  a  woman  of  gentle 
and  affectionate  disposition,  of  much  wisdom,  high  moral  principle,  and  unaffected 
piety.  She  died  when  the  poet  was  in  his  eighth  year  ;  so  that,  like  Cowper,  he 
had  hardly  listened  to  the  language  of  maternal  love  when  it  was  lost  to  him  for 
ever.  Henceforth  he  was  confided  to  the  care  of  strangers.  But  the  impressions 
left  upon  his  mind  by  his  mother's  tender  treatment,  and  by  the  liberal  and 
enlarged,  yet  gentle  and  confiding  spirit  in  which  -she  conducted  the  moral  and 
mental  training  of  his  childhood,  appear  to  have  been  deep  and  abiding,  for  he 
has  embodied  them  in  one  or  two  passages  of  his  poems,  in  lines  as  full  of  truthful 
feeling  and  tender  pathos  as  any  in  the  language. 

The  family  consisted  of  five  children — four  sons,  and  one  daughter.  The  eldest 
son  became  an  attorney  and  died  in  1816 ;  the  thjjrd  went  to  sea,  became  com- 
mander of  the  Earl  of  Abergavenny,  East  Indiaman,  and  perished  by  shipwreck  of! 
W.ymouth  in  1805.  The  youngest,  Christopher,  entered  the  Church,  and  became 
well   known  as  Dr.    Wordsworth,*  author   of  a   work   entitled     'Ecclesiastical 


*  Two  of  Dr.   Wordsworth's  sons  have  become  somewhat  distinguished.      One  of  them — 
Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.D.— is  the  present  able  and  learned  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  the  writer  *\ 


xxiv  MEMOIR. 

Biography, "  and  for  many  years  Master  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Dorothy 
Wordsworth,  the  only  daughter,  and  the  constant  companion  of  the  poet  down  to 
the  day  of  her  death,  was,  like  her  mother,  a  woman  of  gentle  and  affectionate 
aature,  but  of  exquisite  sensibility,  and  of  considerable  literary  and  poetic 
power. 

But  the  poet,  it  would  appear,  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  about  whose 
future  welfare  his  mother  was  anxious.  He,  she  is  recorded  to  have  said,  would 
be  remarkable  either  for  good  or  for  evil.  "The  cause  of  this  was,"  he  says, 
"  that  I  was  of  a  stiff,  moody,  and  violent  temper  ;  so  much  so,  that  I  remember 
going  once  into  the  attics  of  my  grandfather's  house  at  Penrith,  upon  some  indignity 
having  been  put  upon  me,  with  the  intention  of  destroying  myself  with  one  of  the 
foils  which  I  knew  was  kept  there.  I  took  the  foil  in  hand — but  my  heart  failed." 
Another  and  better  destiny  was  in  store  for  him. 

He  received  the  first  rudiments  of  learning  at  a  dame-school  at  Penrith,  where  he 
Was  often  taken  when  a  child  to  reside  with  his  maternal  grand-parents.  And 
here  he  had  for  classmate  a  little  girl,  a  few  months  younger  than  himself,  named 
Mary  Hutchinson,  who,  some  thirty  years  afterwards,  became  sole  mistress  of  his 
house  and  heart. 

After  having  spent  a  year  or  two  at  school  at  Cockermou'.h,  he  wTas,  in  1778} 
when  in  the  ninth  year  of  his  age,  sent  to  the  endowed  Grar /mar-school  of  Hawks- 
head,  in  Lancashire,  where  he  remained  till  he  was  fourteen.  And  it  was  while  here 
his  first  attempts  at  verse-making  were  made.  One  of  the  pieces  he  composed  unmis- 
takably presaged  two  of  his  most  prominent  mental  characteristics.  "  It  was,"  he 
says,  "a  long  poem  running  upon  my  own  adventures,  and  the  scenery  of  die 
country  in  which  I  was  brought  up."  These  verses,  he  adds,  were  admired  far 
more  than  they  deserved,  "for  they  were  but  a  tame  imitation  of  Pope's  versifica- 
tion, and  a  little  in  his  style."  The  days  he  spent  at  school  here,  he  says,  were 
amongst  the  happiest  of  his  life,  chiefly  because  he  was  at  liberty  to  read  whatever 
books  he  liked.  "I  read,"  he  says,  "  all  Fielding's  works,  'Don  Quixote,'  'Gil 
Bias,'  'Gulliver's  Travels,'  and  the  'Tale  of  a  Tub;'  the  two  latter,"  he 
adds,  "being  much  to  my  taste,"  a  circumstance  which  may  account  for  the 
remarkable  strength  and  purity  of  his  English  style. 

In  1 783  his  father  died,  leaving  little  fortune  to  his  children,  beyond  some 
heavy  claims  for  professional  labour  rendered  to  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  whose  law- 
agent,  as  already  mentioned,  he  was.  But  as  this  nobleman  refused  to  recognise 
these  claims,  or  to  meet  them  in  any  way,  they  remained  unpaid  till  his  death  in 
1802.  In  the  meantime,  the  poet,  and  his  three  brothers  and  his  sister,  were 
thrown  upon  the  care  of  their  two  uncles — Richard  Wordsworth  and  Christopher 


the  poet's  life,  and  the  author  of  various  valuable  works  on  religious,  classical,  historical,  literary, 
and  polemical  subjects.  The  oAer — Charles  Wordsworth,  D.D. — equally  able  and  learned,  and 
the  author  of  the  best  and  most  popular  Greek  Grammar  of  the  present  day,  and  of  a  number  of 
other  works  on  religious  and  literary  topics — is  Bishop  of  St.  Andrews  in  the  Episcopal  Church  of 
Scotland. 


MEMOIR.  xxv 

Crackanthorpe — who  appear  to  have  treated  them  with  the  greatest  kindness 
and  consideration. 

In  1787  Wordsworth,  when  in  his  eighteenth  year,  was  sent  by  his  uncles  to 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  remained  for  four  years.  But  his  university 
career  was  neither  pleasant  to  himself  nor  satisfactory  to  his  friends.  His  early 
scholastic  training  does  not  appear  to  have  been  of  a  kind  to  enable  him  to 
pursue  his  university  studies  with  the  same  prospect  of  success  as  was  within  reach 
of  youths  who  had  been  reared  at  the  great  public  schools  ;  and  he  consequently 
felt  inwardly  dissatisfied  and  ill  at  ease,  and  spent  his  time  in  aimless  projects  and  in 
desultory  pursuits.  Besides,  in  other  respects,  the  cloistered  silence  and  constraint 
of  these  classic  shades  seem  to  have  been  unsuited  to  his  nature.  They  "froze 
the  genial  current  of  his  soul,"  for  the  only  poem  composed  while  he  was  a! 
Cambridge  was  the  "  Evening  Walk,"  none  of  the  imagery  of  which  is  derived  from 
academic  scenes.  It  certainly  does  appear,  at  first  sight,  somewhat  singular,  that 
a  mind  so  meditative,  so  calmly  philosophical,  should  have  felt  so  ill  at  ease  in  this 
"garden  of  great  intellects."  But  the  cause  is  clear.  HiL  love  of  nature  from 
childhood  upwards  was  intense.  "  The  sounding  cataract,  the  tall  rock,  the 
morntain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood,  their  glorious  colours  and  their  glow- 
ing forms,"  haunted  him  like  a  passion  ;  so  that,  amid  these  grand  old  halls,  grey 
with  age  and  rich  in  historic  and  intellectual  renown— for  centuries  "the  sacred 
nurseries  of  blooming  youth  " — his  spirit  pined  for  the  freedom  of  its  native  hills 
and  dales ;  and  at  every  convenient  opportunity  he  seems  to  have  escaped  from 
academic  rule,  and  to  have  rambled  at  will,  for  months  together,  among  his  beloved 
lakes  and  mountains. 

In  the  autumn  of  1790,  his  last  college  vacation,  he  made,  in  the  company  of 
a  fellow-collegian,  Mr.  Jones,  afterwards  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  a 
pedestrian  tour  through  France  and  Switzerland  to  the  north  of  Italy.  "We 
went  staff  in  hand,"  he  says,  "without  knapsacks,  and  carrying  each  his  need- 
ments tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  with  about  ,£20  apiece  in  our  pockets." 
During  this  journey  he  seems  to  have  become  infected  with  the  prevailing  revolu- 
tionary fever,  which  had  just  then  become  epidemic  in  France  ;  and  he  hailed  th( 
rising  revolution  with  feelings  of  enthusiastic  admiration,  as  a  new  era  of  liberty 
and  happiness  that  was  about  to  burst  upon  mankind. 

"  Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alh'e; 
But  to  he  young  was  very  heaven." 

Few  of  the  younger  spirits  of  the  time  escaped  the  contagion— the  poets  especially, 
Burns,  Byron,  Coleridge,  Southey,  Campbell  all  felt  the  flame  more  or  less  intensely. 
The  poem  entitled  "  Descriptive  Sketches  "  arose  out  of  materials  obtained  during 
this  ramble. 

In  January,  1791,  he  tosk  his  degree  of  B.A.  and  left  Cambridge  ;  and,  aftet 
a  few  months'  residence  in  London,  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  friend  Jones,  at  the  house 
Of  his  father  in  Wales,  and  with  him  made  a  pedestrian  excursion  among  the  mag- 
nificent mountains  of  North  Wales. 


xxvi  MEMOIR 

About  this  time  he  was  urged  by  some  of  his  friends  to'enter  the  Church  ;  but 
probably  his  republican  sentiments,  and  the  unsettled  state  of  his  mind,  rendered 
him  averse  to  such  a  step.     In  the  meantime  he  resolved  to  visit  France  again. 

The  first  thrilling  scenes  of  the  great  revolutionary  drama  which  was  then 
enacting  on  the  soil  of  France  seem  to  have  stirred  his  soul  "like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet."  The  flutter  of  the  tricolor  was  for  ever  in  his  eyes,  and  the  deep  roll 
of  the  tocsin  for  ever  in  his  ears,  and  he  became  too  excited  to  remain  a  mere 
distant  spectator.  In  November,  179 1,  therefore,  he  hurried  across  the  little  strip 
of  silver  sea  that  separated  him  from  them,  and  spent  the  following  year  in  the 
midst  of  them.  He  passed  a  few  days  at  Paris,  listened  to  the  harangues  in  the 
National  Assembly  and  ?.t  the  Club  of  the  Jacobins,  picked  up  a  stone  as  a  relic 
from  the  ruins  of  the  Bastille  ;  and 

"  Became  a  patriot— and  his  heart  was  all 
Given  to  the  people ;  and  his  love  was  theirs." 

From  Paris  he  proceeded  to  Orleans;  and,  as  he  marched  along  the  endless  avenues 
of  elms,  and  passed  each  vine-clad  slope,  it  seemed,  to  his  excited  mind,  as  if 

"  From  every  cot  e)he  watchful  bird 
Crowed  with  ear-piercing  power  till  then  unheard." 

At  Orleans  he  became  acquainted  with  the  republican  General  Beaupuis,  whom  he 
has  described  in  glowing  and  affectionate  terms  as  an  ardent  patriot,  a  brave  soldier, 
and  a  wise  and  virtuous  philosopher.  On  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  and  in  the 
woods  near  Orleans,  the  enthusiastic  and  delighted  pair  took  long  and  frequent 
walks,  in  which  they  talked  in  rapt  and  hopeful  terms  of  an  approaching  "  pro- 
geny of  golden  years  "  that  were  about  to  bless  mankind.  His  friend  ultimately 
fell— "  fighting  in  supreme  command" — in  one  of  the  many  engagements  which 
took  place  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

In  the  spring  of  1792  Wordsworth  left  Orleans  for  Blois,  where  he  spent  the 
summer.  In  the  autumn  he  proceeded  to  Paris,  which  he  reached  while  the  blood 
of  the  massacres  of  September  may  be  said  to  have  still  clung  to  the  streets.  Royalty 
had  fallen,  and  was  speedily  to  perish.  The  unfortunate  king,  and  his  still  more 
unfortunate  family,  were  in  prison,  and  apart.  France  was  a  republic.  And 
everywhere  the  general  joy  was  being  proclaimed  amidst  the  roll  of  drums,  the 
rattle  of  arms,  and  the  shouts  of  maddened  multitudes  marching  to  the  music  of  the 
Marseillaise.  But  clouds  had  already  begun  to  gather.  The  first  red  drops  had 
fallen — ominous  precursors  of  the  coming  torrents  that  were  to  drench  the  soil  with 
blood.  Such  were  the  libations  poured  out  to  so-called  Liberty  !  The  poet,  says 
his  nephew,  visited  the  dungeon  and  the  palace,  and  the  Place  du  Carrousel, 

where 

"  So  late  had  lain 
The  dead  upon  the  dying  heaped." 

"  He  describes  the  awe  which  he  felt  by  night  in  the  high,  dark,  lonely  chamber 
in  which  he  lodged,  when  he  thought  of  those  scenes  of  carnage,  until  he  seamed 


MEMOIR.  xxvii 

To  hear  a  voice  that  cried, 
To  the  whole  city,  '  Sleep  no  more  !' " 

These  scenes  are  said  to  have  made  so  deep  an  impression  on  him,  that  for  years 
Afterwards  they  haunted  him  in  his  dreams  ! 

Appalled  by  what  he  saw,  and  stung  with  disappointment  that  no  great  spirit  had 
emerged  to  crush  the  impious  leaders  of  "  the  atheist  crew, "he  began  to  forebode  the 
approach  of  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Yet,  as  if  by  some  mysterious  spell,  he  seemed 
fascinated  by  what  he  saw,  and  felt  riveted  to  the  fatal  spot.  Fortunately  for  him 
however,  circumstances  compelled  him  to  return  to  England,  and  he  reluctantly 
tore  himself  away.  Had  he  remained  but  a  little  longer,  he  would,  in  all  probn- 
bilitv,  have  been  swept  away  with  the  innumerable  victims  that  perished  in  the 
excesses  of  that  sanguinary  period.  He  afterwards  gratefully  acknowledged  that 
he  had  been  rescued  "  by  the  gracious  providence  of  Heaven"  from  a  bloody  and 
untimely  end. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  what  he  had  witnessed,  he  clung  for  some  years  unfalter- 
ingly to  his  republican  faith.  Gradually,  however,  as  he  grew  older,  his  political 
opinions  changed,  and  he  ultimately  became  "the  constant  advocate  of  a 
strong  government,  which  should  rigidly  administer  the  institutions  matured  in 
a  long  course  of  ages,  and  only  suffer  them  to  be  altered  slowly  and  gradually 
according  to  the  dictates  of  experience."  In  other  words,  he  became  a  Consen 
vative  in  politics.  For  this  change  in  his  political  opinions,  however,  he  was 
frequently  and  bitterly  attacked.  And  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that  much  of 
the  hostility  which  greeted  the  literary  efforts  of  his  earlier  years  arose  from  the 
strong  feelings  engendered  by  a  knowledge  of  this  fact.  For  in  those  times  party 
spirit  ran  so  high,  that  the  light  in  which  a  man's  productions  were  regarded, 
whether  in  literature,  science,  or  art,  depended  almost  entirely  on  the  special 
political  bias  of  the  party  regarding  them.  In  reference  to  this  change,  however, 
the  poet,  in  his  defence,  said, — "  I  should  think  that  I  had  lived  to  little  purpose 
if  my  notions  on  the  subject  of  government  had  undergone  no  modification.  My 
youth  must,  in  that  case,  have  been  without  enthusiasm,  and  my  manhood  endued 
with  small  capability  of  profiting  by  reflection."  His  conservatisrn,  he  assertedr 
arose  from  reflection  on  the  frightful  excesses  lie  had  seen  perpetrated  on  the  soil 
of  France  in  the  sacred  name  of  Liberty  ;  and  from  indignation  and  abhorrence  at 
the  insane  ambition  and  sanguinary  and  oppressive  measures  of  the  imperial  despot 
who  had  sprung  phcenix-like  from  the  ashes  of  that  Liberty  whose  coming  had 
been  so  long  and  so  hopefully  looked  for,  and  whose  birth  had  been  so  universally 
and  so  enthusiastically  welcomed,  but  whose  existence,  alas  !  had  been  at  once  so 
brief  and  so  bloody. 

In  1793  his  first  pieces  appeared— "The  Evening  "Walk  "  and  "  Descriptive 
Sketches."  They  attracted  little  public  attention  ;  but  Coleridge,  into  whose  hands 
they  had  fallen,  thought  highly  of  them,  and  asserted  with  some  warmth,  that 
"seldom,  if  ever,  was  the  emergence  of  an  original  poetic  genius  above  the  literary 
horizon  more  evidently  announced." 


xxviii  MEMOIR. 

For  the  next  year  or  two  Wordsworth  wandered  about,  making  various  pedestrian 
excursions,  accompanied  by  his  sister  Dorothy  ;  who,  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  was 
to  be  the  faithful  and  revered  companion  of  his  life  and  labours.  And  during  this 
period  he  seems  to  have  become  gradually  impressed  with  the  belief  that  the  voca- 
tion of  the  poet  was  the  calling  for  which  he  had  been  born.  But  while  he  thought 
so,  he  was,  for  the  time,  compelled  to  look  about  for  some  other  means  of  liveli- 
hood. He  planned  a  monthly  publication — The  Philanthropist — which  was  to 
have  been  republican,  but  not  revolutionary  ;  but  it  came  to  nothing.  He  then  tried 
to  find  employment  in  connexion  with  the  metropolitan  newspaper  press;  and  while 
he  was  still  in  doubt  as  to  whether  he  should  succeed,  the  liberality  of  an  amiable 
young  friend,  whose  sick-bed  he  had  attended,  placed  him  for  a  time  beyond  all 
anxiety  on  this  score.  This  generous  friend — Raisley  Calvert,  son  of  a  gentleman 
who  was  steward  to  the  Duke  of  Norfolk — was  so  impressed  with  the  belief  that 
Wordsworth,  if  possessed  of  independent  means,  would  benefit  mankind  by  his 
writings,  that  he  left  him  a  legacy  of  ^900  that  he  might  devote  himself  to  the 
vocation  that  was  to  be  the  sole  business  of  his  life.  Upon  the  interest  of  this  sum, 
^£400  having  been  laid  out  in  annuity,  with  ,£200  deducted  from  the  principal,  and 
^100,  a  legacy  his  sister  had  been  left,  and  ^"ioo  more  which  he  had  for  "  The 
Lyrical  Ballads,"  his  sister  and  himself  contrived  to  live  for  nearly  eight  years,  at 
the  end  of  which  period  Lord  Lonsdale  died,  and  his  successor  at  once  discharged 
the  debt  due  to  the  Wordsworth  family,  which  amounted  to  ,£8500.  Of  this  sum 
;£iSoo  apiece  fell  to  his  sister  and  himself,  an  amount  which,  for  their  moderate 
desires,  amply  sufficed  to  support  them  in  comfort  for  many  additional  years. 

In  the  autumn  of  1795,  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  were  settled  at  Racedown 
Lodge,  in  Dorsetshire,  where  they  industriously  employed  themselves  in  reading, 
writing,  and  gardening.  Here  he  wrote  his  tragedy  of  "  The  Borderers,"  which 
he  sent  to  Mr.  Harris,  who  was  then  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  ;  but 
which  that  gentleman  returned  as  unsuited  for  the  stage.  It  appears  to  have  been 
thrown  aside,  as  it  was  not  published  till  nearly  fifty  years  afterwards  (1842).  Here, 
also,  he  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Coleridge,  whom  he  described  at  that  time 
>s  "  a  noticeable  man,  with  large  grey  eyes,"  but  "depressed  by  weight  of  musing 
fantasy."  The  two  poets  appear  to  have  been  so  delighted  with  each  other's 
society,  that  they  became  eager  for  closer  intimacy.  In  July,  1797,  therefore, 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister  removed  to  Alfoxden,  a  beautiful  and  romantic  spot  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Nether- Stowey,  in  Somersetshire,  where  Coleridge  then 
resided.  The  house  they  occupied  is  described  by  Miss  Wordsworth  as  charmingly 
situated  on  a  slope  within  sight  of  the  sea,  and  "  in  the  midst  of  woods  as  wild  as 
fancy  ever  painted. "  Here  they  remained  for  about  a  year — a  period  which  the 
poet  describes  as  a  most  pleasant  and  productive  time  of  his  life. 

It  was  during  his  residence  here,  also,  that  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads"  originated. 
Their  plan  was  the  joint  production  of  himself  and  Coleridge,  and  a  distinct  part  in 
its  execution  was  assigned  to  each.  It  had  arisen  out  of  the  idea  that  a  series  of  poems 
might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the  one  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be 
in  part  supernatural ;  in  the  other,  the  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life. 


MEMOIR,  xxix 

Accordingly,  the  supernatural  or  romantic  section  was  assigned  to  Coleridge,  while 
Wordsworth  was  "  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day,"  and  to 
awaken  "the  mind's  attention  to  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  to  direct  it  to  the 
loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  around  us."  In  the  autumn  of  1798, 
therefore,  the  "Lyrical  Ballads"  were  published  in  one  volume,  consisting  of 
twenty-three  poems  ("The  Ancient  Mariner"  and  two  others  having  been  contri- 
buted by  Coleridge),  by  Joseph  Cottle,  a  bookseller  of  Bristol,  who  gave  thirty 
guineas  for  the  copyright. 

The  poems  were  published  as  a  protest  against  the  prevailing  artificial 
literature  of  the  period.  The  false  and  unnatural  diction  of  that  literature,  its 
general  inattention  to  the  beauties  of  external  nature,  and  its  utter  want  of 
sympathy  with  the  ordinary  events  and  common  feelings  of  mankind,  the  poet 
had  long  perceived  and  lamented  ;  and  he  felt  that  he  possessed  the  power  of 
producing  poetry  in  which  these  faults  should  not  only  be  avoided,  but  in 
which  he  should  "impart  moral  grandeur  to  poverty,  and  invest  the  objects  of 
irrational  and  inanimate  nature  with  a  beauty  and  grace,  of  which,  it  seemed  to 
him,  they  had  long  been  stripped  by  a  heartless  and  false  taste  pretending  to  the 
title  of  delicacy  and  refinement."  But  in  this  his  first  attempt  to  run  full 
tilt  against  the  popular  taste,  he  was  singularly  unfortunate.  The  refined  and  sen- 
timental school  of  verse,  with  its  elegant  and  polished  diction,  had  far  too  firm  a 
hold  of  the  public  mind  to  be  so  easily  overthrown.  And  the  transition  from  such 
polish  and  refinement  to  the  extreme  simplicity,  and,  in  many  instances,  childish 
nature,  of  the  subjects  of  the  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  the  homely  and  colloquial 
style  in  which  they  were  treated,  was  far  too  great  either  to  escape  censure  or  insure 
success.  But  although  assailed  on  all  hands  by  a  storm  of  ridicule,  they  succeeded 
in  creating  a  public  for  themselves  ;  and  the  poet  was,  therefore,  not  without  hope 
that  he  should  ultimately  succeed  in  freeing  men's  minds  from  the  fetters  of  a  false 
and  pernicious  system  of  ethics  and  of  art,  and  in  leading  them  into  the  freedom 
of  the  broad,  clear  light  of  day,  where  they  might  behold,  with  unveiled  eyes,  and 
face  to  face,  the  surpassing  beauty  and  sublime  grandeur  of  external  nature  ;  and 
where,  while  they  gazed,  chastened  and  subdued,  they  might  feel  ' '  a  sense 
sublime" — a  pervading  "  presence," — 

"  Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  !" 

Strong  in  resolution,  and  firm  in  his  faith  in  himself  and  in  the  future,  he  set  out  ir 
September,  1798,  accompanied  by  his  sister  and  Coleridge,  for  Germany.  At 
Hamburg  the  party  separated — Coleridge  going  on  to  Ratzeburg,  and  Wordsworth 
and  his  sister  proceeding  to  Goslar,  in  Hanover,  a  town  situated  at  the  foot  of  a 
cluster  of  mountains  which  form  part  of  the  Hartz  forest,  and  where  they  spent  the 
winter  of  1798-99,  the  severest  of  the  century.  Here  he  wrote  several  of  his  most 
beautiful  pieces,  such  as  "  Ruth,"  "  Lucy  Grey,"  "  Nutting,"  and  the  blank-verse 
lines  beginning  "  There  was'a  boy,"  and  "  Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe." 


xxx  MEMOIR. 

Here,  also,  he  began  his  great  blank-verse  poem,  "The  Prelude,"  the  subject  cf 
which  was  to  be  the  growth  of  his  mind  and  his  personal  history — "his  travels, 
hopes,  aspirations,  disappointments,  and  distresses — his  inward  conflicts  and 
perplexities." 

During  his  absence  from  England,  the  sale  of  the  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  (the 
edition  of  which  consisted  of  500  copies,)  had  been  so  small,  and  the  severity  of  the 
leading  reviews  so  great,  that  his  publisher  thought  their  progress  to  oblivion 
seemed  certain.  And  some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  general  estimate  in  which 
they  were  held,  when  it  is  stated,  that,  when  the  publisher,  shortly  after  their  pub- 
lication, gave  up  business,  and  transferred  all  his  copyrights  to  Messrs.  Longman 
and  Co.,  of  London,  the  copyright  of  the  "  Ballads"  was  valued  at  nil.  The  pub- 
lisher therefore  begged  that  it  might  be  returned,  which  it  was,  and  he  presented  if 
to  the  author. 

In  February,  1799,  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  returned  to  England  ;  and,  in 
the  end  of  the  same  year,  he  took  up  his  abode,  which  was  to  be  a  life-long  one, 
among  the  lakes  and  mountains  of  his  native  district,  having  settled,  with  his 
sister,  in  a  small  cottage,  pleasantly  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  plot  of  orchard 
ground,  overlooking  the  lake  of  Grasmere.     Here  he  remained  for  eight  years. 

About  the  close  of  1800,  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads"  was  pub- 
lished, along  with  a  reprint  of  the  first.  For  two  editions  of  the  two  volumes,  the 
poet  received  from  Messrs.  Longman  &  Co.,  of  London,  his  publishers,  the  sum 
of  ,£100.  This  time,  their  appearance  excited  even  more  intense  hostility  than  at 
first,  the  critics  almost  to  a  man  being  against  them.  And  this  hostility  was  chiefly 
provoked  by  the  preface  prefixed  to  the  second  edition,  in  which  the  poet,  with  con- 
siderable power,  sets  forth  and  defends  certain  principles  of  poetry  which  he 
deemed  the  main  articles  of  his  philosophical  and  poetical  creed.  What  these  prin- 
ciples were,  and  whether  true  or  false,  need  not  now  be  discussed.  As  embodied 
in  his  works,  with  some  few  modifications  of  his  maturer  years,  they  have  been 
so  long  before  the  world,  and  have  formed  the  subject  of  so  many  elaborate 
and  laudatory  essays  by  some  of  the  ablest  intellects  of  the  age,  that,  in  their 
present  popularity,  we  may  almost  be  said  to  hear  the  judgment  of  posterity  on 
them.  But  no  amount  of  adverse  criticism  had  the  slightest  effect  upon  the 
poet.  He  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  his  way,  and  continued  to  write  and  publish, 
regardless  of  the  storm  he  raised. 

In  October,  1802,  he  bade  a  brief  "  Farewell  !"  to  the  "  little  nook  of  moun- 
tain ground,"  his  residence  at  Grasmere,  and  set  out  for  Penrith,  in  company 
with  his  sister,  to  bring  home  one  who  was  to  be  his  bride — the  school  companion 
of  his  boyish  days — Mary  Hutchinson — 

"  A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ;" 

and  to  whose  graces  of  person,  charms  of  manner,  and  sweetness  of  temper,  his 
poems  pay  warm  and  beautiful  tributes.  To  this  lady  he  now  united  himself  in 
marriage. 


MEMOIR.  xxxr 

In  1S03,  accompanied  by  his  sister  and  Coleridge,  lie  paid  a  visit  to  Scotland. 
Of  this  tour  his  sister  kept  a  very  interesting  diary,  from  which  it  appears  that  he 
visited  the  house  and  grave  of  Burns,  Loch  Lomond,  the  Trosachs,  the  Pass  of 
Killicrankie,  and  a  host  of  other  places  hallowed  by  their  sacred  associations, 
celebrated  for  their  beauty,  famous  in  history,  or  renowned  in  tradition  and  song. 
And  wherever  he  went  his  genius  kindled  and  poured  itself  forth  in  consecra- 
ting and  antistrophic  song.  On  their  return  south,  they  met  with  Scott  at 
.Melrose,  who  conducted  them  to  the  abbey,  pointed  out  its  beauties,  and  related 
its  history,  and  with  whom  they  afterwards  dined  at  the  inn  there,  he  being  at 
that  time  travelling  to  the  assizes  a.t  Jedburgh  in  his  capacity  of  Sheriff  of  Selkirk. 
They  seem  to  have  been  delighted  with  him,  and  long  remembered  the  visit  with 
pleasure. 

Shortly  after  the  poet's  return  home,  he  became  acquainted  with  Sir  George 
Beaumont,  a  descendant  of  the  celebrated  Elizabethan  dramatist,  in  whom  he 
found  a  generous  and  admiring  friend,  and  at  whose  seat  of  Coleorton,  in  Leices- 
tershire, he  was  a  frequent  and  welcome  guest. 

In  February,  1805,  he  sustained  a  severe  shock  in  the  loss  of  his  brother,  Cap- 
tain Wordsworth,  who  went  down  in  the  Abergavenny,  East  Indiaman,  off  me 
coast  of  Weymouth.  A  man  of  warm  and  susceptible  temperament,  of  pure  anc 
simple  manners,  and  of  remarkable  literary  taste  and  critical  discernment,  consi- 
dering the  calling  he  followed,  his  untimely  death  seems  to  have  been  one  of  rns 
heaviest  blows  the  poet  ever  experienced.  In  this  year  Scott  visited  Grasmere, 
and,  in  company  with  Wordsworth  and  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  ascended  to  the  xop 
of  Helvellyn.  In  this  year,  also,  were  composed  "The  Waggoner,"  the 
"  Ode  to  Duty,"  and  "The  Happy  Warrior;"  and  the  autobiographical  poem  of 
"The  Prelude"  was  finished,  and  consigned  to  the  poet's  desk  for  the  next  forty- 
five  years. 

Undeterred  by  the  reception  given  to  the  two  volumes  of  the  "Lyrical  Ballads," 
in  1807  he  gave  to  the  world  two  other  volumes  of  poems,  which  had  been 
composed  since  the  publication  of  the  second  volume  of  the  former.  They  con. 
sisted,  in  addition  to  some  very  fine  ballads,  and  a  number  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  his  smaller  pieces,  of  "Miscellaneous  Sonnets,"  "Sonnets  Dedicated  to 
Liberty,"  and  the  "  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland."  But  the  poet's  persistency 
in  his  principles,  and  the  evident  vitality  of  his  poetic  powers,  would  seem  to  have 
provoked  afresh  the  hostility  of  his  critics  ;  for  no  sooner  had  the  poems  appeared, 
than  they  were  assailed  with  a  fierceness  of  feeling  and  a  licence  of  language 
wholly  disproportioned  to  the  faults  condemned — which  nothing  could  justify,  and 
which  few  indeed  would  have  had  the  courage  to  combat  or  the  spirit  to  endure. 
But  his  opponents,  says  his  nephew,  "were  irritated  by  the  energy  of  that  which 
they  despised.  Their  own  character  for  critical  acumen  seemed  to  be  at  stake  ;  and 
they  conspired  to  crash  a  reputation  whose  existence  was  a  practical  protest  against 
their  own  literary  principles  and  practice,  and  which  doubtless  appeared  to  them  to 
be  fraught  with  pernicious  consequences  to  the  dignity  of  English  literature,  and 
the  progress  of  English  intelligence."     The  effect  of  these  ungenerous  strictures  in 

C 


xxxii  MEMOIR. 

rneckihg  the  sale  of  the  poems  was  such,  that  no  edition  of  them  was  required 
between  1807  and  18 15. 

But  contempt  and  neglect  were  alike  ineffectual.  The  poet  lived  and  wrote  as 
if  he  knew  of  neither.  And,  amidst  all  the  hostility  and  obloquy  which  for  years 
he  endured,  the  just  and  discriminating  estimate  which  he  formed  of  his  works,  and 
the  calm  confidence  with  which  he  regarded  its  ultimate  ratification  both  by 
his  contemporaries  and  by  posterity,  are  perhaps  the  most  astonishing  circum- 
stances in  his  remarkable  literary  career.  A  few  sentences  from  himself,  therefore, 
on  this  subject,  may  be  fitly  quoted  here.  "  I  distinctly  foresaw, "  he  said,  in  writing 
to  a  friend,  ' '  what  you  and  my  other  friends  would  have  to  encounter  in  defending 
me.  But  trouble  not  yourself  about  their  present  reception  [his  poems] ;  of  what 
moment  is  that  compared  with  what  I  trust  is  their  destiny?— to  console  the 
afflicted  ;  to  add  sunshine  to  daylight,  by  making  the  happy  happier  ;  to  teach  the 
young  and  the  gracious  of  every  age  to  see,  to  think,  and  feel,  and  therefore 
to  become  more  actively  and  securely  virtuous  ;  this  is  their  office,  which  I  trust 
they  will  faithfully  perform  long  after  we  are  mouldered  in  our  graves.  I  am  well 
aware  how  far  it  would  seem  to  many  I  overrate  my  own  exertions  when  I  speak  in 
this  way.  I  am  not,  however,  afraid  of  such  censure.  .  .  .  Let  the  poet  first  con- 
sult his  own  heait  as  I  have  done,  and  leave  the  rest  to  posterity.  .  .  .  There  is 
scarcely  one  of  my  poems  which  does  not  aim  to  direct  the  attention  to  some  moral 
sentiment,  or  to  some  general  principle,  or  law  of  thought,  or  of  our  intellectual 
constitution."  And  in  reference  to  the  "  Sonnets  Dedicated  to  Liberty,"  he  s^,ys, 
"  I  would  boldly  say  at  once  that  these  sonnets,  while  they  each  fix  the  attention 
tiDon  some  important  sentiment,  separately  considered,  do,  at  the  same  time,  col- 
lectively make  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  civil  liberty  and  national  independence, 
which,  either  for  simplicity  of  style  or  grandeur  of  moral  sentiment,  is,  alas  !  likely 
to  have  few  parallels  in  the  poetry  of  the  present  day."  .  .  .  "  But,  the  fact  is,"  he 
says,  "the  English  public  are  at  this  moment  in  the  same  state  of  mind  with  respect 
to  my  poems,  if  small  things  can  be  compared  with  great,  as  the  French  are  in 
respect  to  Shakspeare,  and  not  the  French  alone,  but  almost  the  whole  Continent. 
\  am  condemned  for  the  very  thing  for  which  I  ought  to  have  been  praised,  namely, 
that  I  have  not  written  down  to  the  level  of  superficial  observers  and  unthinking 
minds.  Every  great  poet  is  a  teacher.  I  wish  either  to  be  considered  as  a 
teacher,  or  as  nothing."  Again,  he  says,  "Never  forget  what  I  believe  was 
observed  by  Coleridge— that  every  great  and  original  writer,  in  proportion  as  he  is 
great  or  original,  must  himself  create  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  relished  ; 
he  must  teach  the  art  by  which  he  is  to  be  seen. " 

In  the  spring  of  1808,  the  poet  removed  to  Allan  Bank,  a  new  house  which 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  lake  of  Grasmere,  where  he  resided  for  three  years.  This 
period  w-\s  perhaps  the  least  prolific  of  his  life  in  poetry,  a  circumstance  which  his 
nephew  attributes  to  the  many  inconveniences  of  his  new  residence.  "But,  on 
the  other  hand,"  says  the  same  authority,  "the  time  of  his  sojourn  here  was 
rendered  memorable  by  the  production  of  two  works  in  prose  by  two  poets— the 
'Essay  on  the   Convention  of  Cintra,'   by  Wordsworth,    and    The  Friend,  by 


MEMOIR.  txtiH 

Coleridge,  who  dictated  it  (for  he  did  not  write  it  with  his  own  hand)  under 
Wordsworth's  roof." 

Although  the  greater  part  of  the  poet's  life  was  spent  in  comparative  retirement, 
and  in  the  contemplation  of  scenes  and  objects  far  removed  from  the  turmoil  and 
fierce  contention  of  political  strife,  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  he 
was  an  inattentive  observer  of  public  events.  "Few  persons,"  says  his  nephew, 
"though  actually  engaged  in  the  great  struggle  of  that  period,  felt  more  deeply 
than  Wordsworth  did  in  his  peaceful  retreat,  for  the  calamities  of  European 
nations  suffering  at  that  time  from  the  imbecility  of  their  governments,  and  from 
the  withering  oppression  of  a  prosperous  despotism.  I  lis  heart  burned  within  him 
when  he  looked  forth  upon  the  contest ;  and  impassioned  words  proceeded  from 
him  both  in  poetry  and  in  prose.  '  It  would  not, '  he  said  himself  in  conversation,  '  be 
easy  to  conceive  with  what  a  depth  of  feeling  I  entered  into  the  struggle  carried  on 
by  the  Spaniards  for  their  deliverance  from  the  usurped  power  of  the  French. 
Many  times  have  I  gone  from  Allan  Bank  in  Grasmere  Vale,  to  the  Raise-Gap,  as 
it  is  called,  so  late  as  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  meet  the  carrier  bringing  the 
newspaper  from  Keswick.'  " 

In  his  "Essay  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra,"  the  poet  appears  before  the 
world  as  depressed  in  mind  and  indignant  in  spirit,  because  the  war  in  the 
Peninsula  had  not  been  carried  on  by  England  against  France  with  all  the  vigour 
that  it  might  have  been,  and  because,  when  it  was,  as  he  believed,  in  the  power  of 
England  to  have  emancipated  Spain  and  Portugal  from  the  intolerable  thraldom  of 
French  tyranny,  she  allowed  the  enemy  to  escape  by  a  retreat  similar  to  a  triumph. 
Although  lucidly  conceived,  and  written  in  a  strain  of  impassioned  prose,  and  said 
to  have  been  pronounced  by  Canning  to  be  the  most  eloquent  production  that  had 
appeared  since  the  days  of  Burke,  it  yet  fell  almost  still-born  from  the  press,  and 
attracted  so  very  little  attention,  that  there  is  scarcely  any  production  of  the  cen- 
tury so  difficult  to  be  met  with  as  this  tract.  As  a  specimen  of  the  spirit  and  style 
of  this  little  known  but  noble  essay,  a  single  extract  may  be  given.  In  the 
following  passage  the  poet  contends  for  the  supremacy  of  moral  over  physical 
power,  and  shows  how  the  spirit  of  freedom,  when  actuated  by  pure  passions  and 
high  actions,  must  always  ultimately  triumph  over  all  the  tools  and  implements  of 
tyranny : — 

"There  is  no  middle  course:  two  masters  cannot  be  served: — Justice 
must  either  be  enthroned  above  might,  and  the  moral  law  take  the  place  of  the 
edicts  of  selfish  passion ;  or  the  heart  of  the  people,  which  alone  can  sustain  the 
efforts  of  the  people,  will  languish  ;  their  desires  will  not  spread  beyond 
the  plough  and  the  loom,  the  field  and  the  fireside  ;  the  sword  will  appear 
to  them  an  emblem  of  no  promise  ;  an  instrument  of  no  hope  ;  an  object  of  indif- 
ference, of  disgust  or  fear.  Was  there  ever — since  the  earliest  actions  of  men 
which  have  been  transmitted  by  affectionate  tradition,  or  recorded  by  faithfuJ 
history,  or  sung  to  the  impassioned  harp  of  poetry — was  there  ever  a  people  who 
presented  themselves  to  the  reason  and  the  imagination,  as  under  more  holy 
influences  than  the  dwellers  upon  the  Southern  peninsula ;  as  roused  more  instat*- 


xxxTr  MEMOIR. 

taneously  from  a  deadly  sleep  to  a  more  hopeful  wakefulness  ;  as  a  mass  fluctuating 
with  one  motion  under  the  breath  of  a  mightier  wind  ;  as  breaking  themselves  up, 
and  settling  into  several  bodies,  in  more  harmonious  order ;  as  reunited  and  em- 
battled under  a  standard  which  was  reared  to  the  sun  with  more  authentic  assurance 
of  final  victory  ?  .  .  .  Let  the  fire,  which  is  never  wholly  to  be  extinguished,  break 
out  afresh  ;  let  but  the  human  creature  be  roused  ;  whether  he  have  lain  headless 
and  torpid  in  religious  or  civil  slavery ;  have  languished  under  a  thraldom,  domestic 
or  foreign,  or  under  bt  >th  these  alternately  ;  or  have  drifted  about,  a  helpless  mem- 
ber of  a  clan  of  disjointed  and  feeble  barbarians, — let  him  rise  and  act ;  and 
his  domineering  imagination,  by  which  from  childhood  he  has  been  betrayed, 
and  the  debasing  affections  which  it  has  imposed  upon  him,  will  from  that  moment 
participate  in  the  dignity  of  the  newly-ennobled  being  whom  they  will  now  acknow- 
ledge for  their  master  ;  and  will  further  him  in  his  progress,  whatever  be  the  object 
at  which  he  aims.  Still  more  inevitable  and  momentous  are  the  results,  when  the 
individual  knows  that  the  fire  which  is  reanimated  in  him  is  not  less  lively  in  the 
breasts  of  his  associates  ;  and  sees  the  signs  and  testimonies  of  his  own  power, 
incorporated  with  those  of  a  growing  multitude,  and  not  to  be  distinguished  from 
them,  accompany  him  wherever  he  moves.  Hence  those  marvellous  achievements 
which  were  performed  by  the  first  enthusiastic  followers  of  Mohammed,  and 
by  other  conquerors,  who  with  their  armies  have  swept  large  portions  of  the  earth 
like  a  transitory  wind,  or  have  founded  new  religions  or  empires.  But  if  the 
object  contended  for  be  worthy  and  truly  great  (as,  in  the  instance  of  the  Spaniards, 
we  have  seen  that  it  is) ;  if  cruelties  have  been  committed  upon  an  ancient  and 
venerable  people,  which  shake  the  human  frame  with  horror  ;  if  not  alone  the  life 
which  is  sustained  by  the  bread  of  the  mouth,  but  that — without  which  there  is  no 
life — the  life  in  the  soul  has  been  directly  and  mortally  warred  against  ;  if  reason 
has  had  abominations  to  endure  in  her  inmost  sanctuary ;  then  does  intense 
passion,  consecrated  by  a  sudden  revelation  of  justice,  give  birth  to  those  higher 
and  better  wonders  which  I  have  described ;  and  exhibit  true  miracles  to  the 
eyes  of  men,  and  the  noblest  which  can  be  seen.  It  may  be  added  that, — as 
this  union  brings  back  to  the  right  road  the  faculty  of  imagination,  where  it  is 
prone  to  err  and  has  gone  furthest  astray  ;  as  it  corrects  those  qualities  which 
are  in  their  essence  indifferent,  and  cleanses  those  affections  which  (not  being 
inherent  in  the  constitution  of  man,  nor  necessarily  determined  to  their  object), 
are  more  immediately  dependent  upon  the  imagination,  and  which  may  have 
received  from  it  a  thorough  taint  of  dishonour  ; — so  the  domestic  loves  and 
janctities  which  are  in  their  nature  less  liable  to  be  stained — so  these,  wher- 
ever they  have  flowed  with  a  pure  and  placid  stream,  do  instantly,  under  the 
same  influence,  put  forth  their  strength  as  in  a  flood  ;  and  without  being  sul- 
lied or  polluted,  pursue — exultmgly  and  with  song — a  course  which  leads  the 
contemplative  reason  to  the  ocean  of  eternal  love." 

In  1810,  he  wrote  the  in*  oduction  to  a  folio  volume  of  "  Select  Views  in  Cum- 
berland, Westmoreland,  and  Lancashire,"  which,  as  a  description  of  the 
beauty  and  magnificence  of  the  lake  sceneiy,  of  the  inhabitants,  their  homesteads, 


MEMOIR.  xxxv 

and  their  manner  of  living,  of  the  most  striking  and  characteristic  features  of  each 
district,  with  instructions  as  to  the  best  manner  of  seeing  these,  is  reckoned  tha 
most  accurate  and  intoiesting  thing  of  the  kind  ever  written. 

In  the  spring  of  1813,  after  one  temporary  change  of  residence,  he  took  up  his 
abode  at  Rydal  Mount,  about  two  miles  distant  from  Grasmere,  and  here  he  con- 
tinued to  reside  till  the  day  of  his  death,  thirty-seven  years  after.  The  house, 
which  has  since  become  so  famous,  is  a  two-storied,  sober-hued,  modest  mansion, 
tinged  with  weather  stains,  mantled  over  here  and  there  with  roses,  ivy,  jessamine, 
and  Virginia  creeper,  and  stands  on  the  sloping  side  of  a  rocky  hill,  with  a 
southern  aspect,  overlooking  the  lake  of  Windermere,  and  commanding  beautiful 
views  of  the  romantic  vale  of  the  Rothay,  and  of  the  distant  wood-fringed  waters 
of  the  lake ;  while  around  the  dark  waters  rise  the  gracefully-rounded,  richly- 
wooded  mountains — soft  as  the  scenery  of  a  still  Dreamland  ;  beautiful  with 
cultured  picturesqueness,  as  of  the  gardens  of  the  Titans  ;  clothed  with  the 
"infinite  enchantment"  of  atmospheric  effects  ever  varying  and  always  lovely; 
and  glowing — "in  the  light  of  setting  suns" — with  a  glory  of  colour — orange, 
and  bronze,  purple  and  amethyst,— against  the  loftier  and  remoter  peaks  that  rise 
in  the  far  distance,  faint  and  unsubstantial  in  the  wide  lapse  of  light,  like  high-piled 
cloud  on  cloud. 

The  poet's  good  fortune  seems  to  have  followed  him  to  this  beautiful  abode  ;  for 
he  had  hardly  taken  possession  of  it  when  he  received  the  appointment  of  distribu- 
tor of  stamps  in  the  county  of  Westmoreland — an  office  which  added  about  .£500 
a  year  to  his  income,  and  the  duties  or  which  were  discharged  by  a  clerk,  so  that 
he  was  still  left  ample  liberty  to  follow  his  literary  pursuits.  For  this  desirable  ap- 
pointment he  was  indebted  to  the  influence  of  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  who  had  been 
for  many  years  his  constant  and  generous  friend,  and  whose  kindness  on  this  occa- 
sion he  gratefully  acknowledged  by  dedicating  "The  Excursion"  to  him  in 
a  complimentary  prefatory  sonnet. 

A  second  tour  in  Scotland  early  in  1814,  in  company  with  his  wife  and  his  sister, 
gave  birth  to  a  few  poems,  amongst  which  was  "Yarrow  Visited."  And  in  the 
summer  of  the  same  year  appeared  his  great  poem,  "  The  Excursion."  It  need 
scarcely  be  said,  that,  with  the  leading  reviewers  of  the  day,  it  fared  no  better  than 
his  former  less  ambitious  attempts  had  done  ;  and  that,  with  hardly  a  single  excep- 
tion, and  in  the  strongest  terms  of  condemnation,  they  doomed  it  to  oblivion  !  And 
it  is  a  somewhat  remarkable  fact  in  literary  history  that  a  single  edition  of  500 
copies  of  this  poem  satisfied  the  English  public  for  a  period  of  six  years.  Another 
edition,  also  confined  to  500  copies,  published  in  1827,  was  found  sufficient  for  the 
following  seven  years.  But,  notwithstanding  these  discouragements,  the  poet's 
equanimity  was  undisturbed.  "Let  the  age  continue  to  love  its  own  darkness," 
he  said,  in  a  letter  to  Southey,  "  I  shall  continue  to  write,  with,  I  trust,  the  light 
of  Heaven  upon  me."  "  If  '  The  Excursion  '  is  to  be  judged  of  by  its  best  passages," 
says  one  of  his  admirers,  "hardly  any  poem  in  the  language  is  equal  to  it.  Some  of 
its  scenes,  extending  to  hundreds  of  lines,  many  smaller  passages,  and  innumerable 
verses  and  phrases,   are  among  the  most   exquisite  things  to   which  any  poetic 


raxvi  MEMOIR. 

mind  ever  gave  expression."  "  In  power  of  intellect,"  says  another,  Hazlltt,  "in 
lefty  conception,  in  the  depth  of  feeling,  at  once  simple  and  sublime,  which  per- 
vades every  part  of  it,  and  which  gives  to  every  object  an  almost  preternatural 
and  preter-human  interest,  this  work  has  seldom  been  surpassed  !" 

In  1815  appeared  the  "  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,"  a  beautiful  legendary  poem, 
which  the  poet  considered,  in  conception,  the  highest  work  he  had  ever  produced. 
In  the  preceding  and  two  following  years  were  composed  "  Laodamia,"  "  Dion," 
and  the  "  Ode  to  Lycoris,"  in  conception  and  expression  the  purest  and  most  richly 
classic  pieces  he  ever  penned.  The  "Thanksgiving  Ode,"  and  a  rhymed  transla- 
tion., in  the  style  of  Pope,  of  three  books  of  the  "  ./Eneid,"  were  produced  in 
1S16. 

In  1819,  appeared  "Peter  Bell,"  which  had  been  written  nearly  twenty  years 
before,  and  which  is  really  remarkable  as  having  been  more  in  request  than  any  of  his 
previous  publications.  An  edition  of  500  copies  was  printed  in  April,  and  another 
impression  of  it  was  required  in  the  following  month.  "The  Waggoner,"  which 
appeared  at  the  same  time,  was  not,  however,  so  successful.  To  this  year,  also, 
belong  the  beautiful  series  of  "  Sonnets  on  the  River  Duddon." 

In  1820,  Wordsworth,  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  sister,  made  a  tour  of  four 
months  on  the  Continent,  which  gave  birth  to  a  volume  of  sonnets  and  other  poems, 
published  in  1822,  under  tne  title  of  "Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent." 
In  this  year,  too,  a  brief  visit  to  his  friend,  Sir  George  Beaumont,  at  his  seat  of 
Coleorton,  in  Leicestershire,  suggested  the  splendid  series  of  "Ecclesiastical 
Sonnets." 

During  the  next  few  years  the  poet  appears  to  have  done  little  else  than  travel 
about,  either  on  special  tours,  or  on  visits  to  his  friends  ,  and  in  the  autumn  of 
1 83 1  he  setoff  from  Rydal  Mount,  in  company  with  his  daughter,  to  visit  Sir  Walter 
Scott  before  his  departure,  ruined  in  fortune,  and  weakened  in  body  and  mind,  for 
Italy 

They  reached  Abbotsford  on  Monday.  "How  sadly  changed,"  says  Words- 
worth, "  did  I  find  him  from  the  man  I  had  seen  so  healthy,  gay,  and  hopeful  a 
few  years  before.  The  inmates  and  guests  we  found  there  were  Sir  Walter,  Major 
r>cott,  Anne  Scott,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lockhart  ;  Mr.  Liddell,  his  lady  and  brother, 
Mr.  Allan,  the  painter,  and  Mr.  Laidlaw.  In  the  evening  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Liddell 
sang,  and  Mrs.  Lockhart  chanted  old  ballads  to  her  harp  ;  and  Mr.  Allan,  hanging 
over  the  back  of  a  chair,  told  and  acted  old  stories  in  a  humorous  way.  With  this 
exhibition  and  his  daughter's  singing,  Sir  Walter  was  much  amused,  and,  indeed, 
were  we  all,  as  far  as  circumstances  would  allow.  On  Tuesday  morning  Sir  Walter 
accompanied  us  to  Newark  Castle,  on  the  Yarrow.  ...  Of  that  excursion  the 
verses,   'Yarrow  Revisited,'    are  a  memorial.  .     .     On  our  return,  in  the 

afternoon,  we  had  to  cross  the  Tweed  directly  opposite  Abbotsford.  ...  A 
rich  but  sad  light,  of  rather  a  purple  than  a  golden  hue,  was  spread  over  the  Eildon 
Hills  at  that  moment ;  and,  thinking  it  probable  that  it  might  be  the  last  time  Sir 
Walter  would  cross  the  stream,  I  was  not  a  little  moved,  and  expressed  some  of  my 
feelings  in  the  following  sonnet  1 — 


"  '  A  trouble,  not  of  clouds  or  weeping  rain, 
Nor  oi  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  lighl 

I  i.     ndered,  hangs  o'er  Eildbn's  triple  height : 

Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 

For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  m  chanting  a  blithe  strain. 

Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  mourners  !  for  the  might 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes; 

Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue 

Than  sceptered  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  knows. 

Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate  !     Be  true, 

Ye  winds  ol  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea, 

Wafting  your  charge  to  soft  Parthenope  !' 

On  Thursday  morning  Sir  Walter  and  I  had  a  serious  conversation,  tfte-h-tHe,  when 
he  spoke  with  gratitude  of  the  happy  life,  which,  upon  the  whole,  he  had  led.  He 
had  written  in  my  daughter's  album,  before  he  came  into  the  breakfast-room  that 
morning,  a  few  stanzas  addressed  to  her  ;  and  while  putting  the  book  into  her 
hand,  in  his  own  study,  standing  by  his  desk,  he  said  to  her,  in  my  presence,  '  I 
should  not  have  done  anything  of  this  kind  but  for  your  father's  sake  ;  they  are 
probably  the  last  verses  I  shall  ever  write.'  They  showed  how  much  his  mind  was 
impaired  ;  not  by  the  strain  of  thought,  but  by  the  execution,  some  of  the  lines 
being  imperfect,  and  one  stanza  wanting  corresponding  rhymes."  At  noon  on  the 
same  day  the  poets  parted,  and  on  Wordsworth  expressing  a  hope  that  Sir  Walter's 
health  would  be  benefited  by  the  climate  of  the  country  to  which  he  was  going, 
and  by  the  interest  he  would  take  in  the  classic  remembrances  of  Italy,  he,  with  a 
flash  of  fitting  recollection,  but  in  a  tone  of  deepest  sadness,  made  answer  in 
Wordsworth's  own  words — a  quotation  from  "  Yarrow  Unvisited  " — "When  I  am 
there,  although  'tis  fair,  'twill  be  another  Yarrow." 

This  visit,  and  another,  which  he  paid  to  Scotland  in  1833,  accompanied  by  his 
son,  and  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  Esq.,  furnished  materials  for  a  volume  which  he 
published  in  1835,  entitled,  "Yarrow  Revisited,  and  other  Poems." 

A  five  months'  tour  in  Italy  in  the  spring  ami  summer  of  1S37  suggested  several 
pieces,  which  appeared  in  1842,  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Poems  Chiefly  of  Early  and 
Late  Years."     This  was  the  last  volume  published  during  his  lifetime. 

About  this  time  public  feeling  and  critical  opinion  began  to  change,  and  the 
mists  of  prejudice,  which  had  so  long  lowered  over  his  greatness,  and  concealed  or 
obscured  it,  gradually  vanished.  Henceforth,  year  by  year,  the  fame  of  the  Poet 
of  the  Lakes  grew  wider  and  wider  ;  and  long  before  his  death  he  was  acknow- 
ledged to  be  the  greatest  English  poet  of  his  age,  and  regarded  with  reverence  as 
one  of  the  purest  and  most  blameless  of  English  writers.  Honours  now  flowed 
fast  upon  him,  and  the  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  passed  in  the  midst  of  that 
which  should  accompany  old  age — "  as  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends." 

In  the  summer  of  1839,  amid  the  enthusiastic  acclamations  of  the  students,  the 
University  of  Oxford  honoured  him  with  the  degree  of  D.C.L.  In  1842  he  resigned 
the  Government  appointment  he  held  in  favour  of  his  son,  who  had  for  some  time 
acted  as  his  deputy.  A  few  months  afterwards,  he  received,  through  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  a  grant  from  the  Crown  of  £300  a  year.     In  1843,  on  the  death  of  his  friend 


xxxviii  MEMOIR. 

Southey,  he  was  offered,  in  flattering  terms,  the  vacant  Laureateship,  which,  after 
some  hesitation,  on  account  of  his  age,  he  accepted,  on  the  assurance  that  it  was  to 
be  entirely  nominal  and  honorary.  In  1844,  Lord  Jeffrey,  perhaps  the  severest 
of  his  literary  censors,  in  republishing  his  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Revieiv, 
look  occasion,  in  graceful  and  fitting  terms,  to  acknowledge  the  poet's  many  and 
great  merits. 

In  1846,  his  brother,  Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.D.,  died;  and  in  the  following 
year  he  sustained  a  still  greater  grief  in  the  death  of  his  accomplished  and  darling 
daughter,  Dora  (Mrs.  Quillinan). 

Two  years  afterwards,  at  Rydal  Mount,  on  the  23rd  of  April,  1850,  the  poet 
himself  passed  peacefully  away  in  the  eightieth  year  of  his  age.  His  remains  were 
laid  n»ar  those  of  his  children,  in  Grasmere  Churchyard. 

"His  own  prophecy,"  says  his  nephew,"  in  the  lines  to  the  daisy  — 

"  '  Sweet  flower  !  belike  one  day  to  have 
A  place  upon  thy  poet's  grave, 
I  welcome  thee  once  more,' 

is  now  fulfilled.  He  reposes,  according  to  his  own  wish,  beneath  the  green  turf, 
among  the  dalesmen  of  Grasmere,  under  the  sycamores  and  yews  of  a  country 
churchyard,  by  the  side  of  a  beautiful  stream,  amid  the  mountains  which  he  loved  ; 
'ind  a  solemn  voice  seems  to  breathe  from  his  grave,  which  blends  its  tones  in 
sweet  and  holy  harmony  with  the  accents  of  his  poetry,  speaking  the  language  of 
humility  and  love,  of  adoration  and  faith,  and  preparing  the  soul,  by  a  religious 
exercise  of  the  kindly  affections,  and  by  a  devout  contemplation  of  natural  beauty, 
for  a  translation  to  a  purer,  and  nobler,  and  more  glorious  state  of  existence,  and 
for  a  fruition  of  heavenly  felicity." 

In  this  brief  and  nacessarily  imperfect  sketch,  it  would  be  impossible  to  enter  at 
any  length  into  the  merits  of  Wordsworth's  poetry.  But  a  very  fair  estimate 
may  be  formed  of  the  poet's  artistic  power,  and  of  the  pervading  spirit 
ef  his  poetry  from  the  two  following  brief  extracts.  The  first  few  justly-dis- 
criminating and  happily-expressed  sentences,  descriptive  of  the  higher  charac- 
teristics of  his  poetry,  are  from  the  able  and  admirably  drawn  literary  and 
poetical  character  of  the  poet  by  his  friend  Coleridge,  in  his  Biographia 
Literaria.  The  second  series,  equally  able,  and  quite  as  felicitously  expressed, 
are  from  the  pen  of  William  Ellery  Channing,  and  describe  those  simpler,  but,  for 
the  popular  mind,  more  attractive,  characteristics  which  so  touchingly  and  so 
powerfully  appeal  to  the  instincts  and  feelings  of  our  common  humanity 

Wordsworth's  poetry  is  marked  by—  "First,  An  austere  purity  of  language, 
both  grammatically  and  logically  ;  in  short,  a  perfect  appropriateness  of  the  words 
to  the  meaning.  Secondly,  A  correspondent  weight  and  sanity  of  the  thoughts 
and  sentiments  won,  not  from  books,  but  from  the  poet's  own  meditations, 
They  are  fresh,  and  have  the  dew  upon  them.  Even  throughout  his  smaller 
poems,  there  is  not  one  which  is  not  rendered  valuable  by  some  just  and  original 


MEMOIIi.  xxxi, 

reflection.  Thirdly,  The  sinewy  strength  and  originality  of  single  lines  and 
paragraphs,  the  frequent  curiosa  felicitas  of  his  diction.  Fourthly,  The  perfect 
truth  of  nature  in  his  images  and  descriptions,  as  taken  immediately  from  nature, 
and  proving  a  long  and  genial  intimacy  with  the  very  spirit  which  gives  a 
physiognomic  expression  to  all  the  works  of  nature.  Fifthly,  A  meditative 
pathos,  a  union  of  deep  and  subtle  thought  with  sensibility  :  a  sympathy  with 
man  as  man  ;  the  sympathy,  indeed,  of  a  contemplator  rather  than  a  fellow- 
sufferer  and  co-mate  {spectator,  hand  parttceps),  but  of  a  contemplator  from 
whose  view  no  difference  of  rank  conceals  the  sameness  of  the  nature  ;  no 
injuries  of  wind  or  weather,  or  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly  disguise  the  human 
face  divine.  Last,  and  pre-eminently,  I  challenge  for  this  poet  the  gift  of  imagina- 
tion in  the  highest  and  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  In  the  play  oi  fancy,  Words- 
worth, to  my  feelings,  is  always  graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite.  The  hketusi 
is  occasionally  too  strange,  or  demands  too  peculiar  a  point  of  view,  or  is  such  as 
appears  the  creature  of  predetermined  research,  rather  than  spontaneous  presenta- 
tion. Indeed,  his  fancy  seldom  displays  itself  as  mere  and  unmodified  fancy.  But 
in  imaginative  power  he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  and  yet  in  a  mind  perfectly  unborrowed,  and  his  own.  To  employ  his  own 
words,  which  are  at  once  an  instance  and  an  illustration,  he  does  indeed,  to  all 
thoughts  and  to  all  objects- 

'  Add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream.'  " 

"  The  great  poet  of  our  times,  Wordsworth — one  of  the  few  who  are  to  live — 
has  gone  to  common  life,  to  the  feelings  of  our  universal  nature,  to  the  obscure  and 
neglected  portions  of  society,  for  beautiful  and  touching  themes.  Genius  is  not  a 
creator,  in  the  sense  of  fancying  or  feigning  what  does  not  exist.  Its  distinction 
is  to  discern  more  of  truth  than  common  minds.  It  sees  under  disguises  and 
humble  forms  everlasting  beauty.  This  it  is  the  prerogative  of  Wordsworth  to 
discern  and  reveal  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  life,  in  the  common  human  heart.  He 
has  revealed  the  loveliness  of  the  primitive  feelings,  of  the  universal  affections  of  the 
human  soul.  The  grand  truth  which  pervades  his  poetry,  is  that  the  beautiful  is 
not  confined  to  the  rare,  the  new,  the  distant — to  scenery  and  modes  of  life  open 
only  to  the  few  ;  but  that  it  is  poured  forth  profusely  on  the  common  earth  and 
sky,  that  it  gleams  from  the  loneliest  flower,  that  it  lights  up  the  humblest  sphere, 
that  the  sweetest  affections  lodge  in  lowliest  hearts,  that  there  is  sacredness,  dignity, 
and  loveliness  in  lives  which  few  eyes  rest  on — that,  even  in  the  absence  of  all  in- 
tellectual culture,  the  domestic  relations  can  quietly  nourish  that  disinterestedness 
which  is  the  element  of  all  greatness,  and  without  which  intellectual  power  is  a 
splendid  deformity.  Wordsworth  is  the  poet  of  humanity  ;  he  teaches  reverence 
for  our  universal  nature ;  he  breaks  down  the  factitious  barriers  between  human 
hearts." 


POEMS 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH, 


Jubcmlc  |1acms. 


EXTRACT 


PROM    THE    CONCLUSION      OF      A     PCEM, 
COMPOSED    UPON    LEAVING   SCHOOL. 

Dear  native  regions,  I  foretell, 
From  what  I  feel  at  this  farewell, 
That,  wheresoe'er  my  steps  shall  tend, 
And  whensoe'er  my  course  shall  end, 
If  in  that  hour  a  single  tie 
Survive  of  local  sympathy, 
My  soul  will  cast  the  backward  view, 
The  longing  look  alone  on  you. 

Thus,  when  the  sun,  prepared  for  rest, 
Hath  gained  the  precincts  of  the  wes' 
Though  his  departing  radiance  fail 
To  illuminate  the  hollow  vale, 
A  lingering  light  he  fondly  throws 
On  the  dear  hills  where  first  he  rose. 


AN  EVENING  WALK, 

ADDUESSED    TO    A    YOUNG   LADY. 

Far  from  my  dearest  friend,   'tis  mine  to 

rove  [pastoral  cove; 

Through  bare  gray  dell,  high  wood,   and 
Where  Derwent  stops  his  course  to  hear 

the  roar 
That   stuns   the   tremulous  clifls  of  high 

Lodore ; 
Where  peace  to  Grasmere 's  lonely  island 

leads,  [meads  ; 

To  willowy   hedgerows,   and   to  emerald 
Leads   to  her  bridge,   rude    church,   and 

cottaged  grounds,  [bounds  ; 

Her  rocky  sheepwalks,  and  her  woodland 


Where,  deep  embosomed,  shy*  Winandot 
peeps  [steeps ; 

'Mid  clustering  isles,    and  holly-sprinkl'-d 

Where  twilight  glens  endear  my  Esthwaite.'s 
shore, 

And  memory  of  departed  pleasures,  more. 

Fair  scenes!  ere-while  I  taught,  a  happy 
child, 
The  echoes  of  your  rocks  my  carols  wild: 
Then  did  no  ebb  of  cheerfulness  demand 
Sad  tides  of  joy  from  Mela'  icholy's  hand; 
In  youth's  keen  eye  the  livelong  day  was 

bright, 
The  sun  at  morning,  and  the  stars  of  night, 
Alike,  when  heard  the  bittern's  hollow  bill, 
Or  the  first  woodcockst  roamed  the  moon- 
light hill. 

In  thoughtless  gaiety  I  coursed  the  plain, 
And  hope  itself  was  all  I  knew  of  pain. 
For  then,  even  then,  the  little  heart  would 

beat  [seat, 

At  times,  while  young  Content  forsook  her 
And  wild   Impatience,    pointing   upward, 

showed  [summits  glowed. 

Where,   tipped  with  gold,  the  mountain- 
Alas!  the  idle  tale  of  man  is  found 
Depicted  in  the  dial's  moral  round; 
Hope  with  Reflection  blends  her  social  rays 
To  gild  the  total  tablet  of  his  days; 


*  These  lines  are  only  applicable  to  the 
middle  part  of  that  lake. 

t  In  the  beginning  of  winter  the<«!  mountains 
are  frequented  by  woodcocks,  which  in  dark 
nights  retire  into  the  woods. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Yet    still,    the  sport   of  some   malignant 

power,  [hour. 

He  knows  but  from  its  shade  the  present 

But    why,    ungrateful,    dwell    on    idle 
pain  ? 
To  show  what  pleasures  yet  to  me  remain, 
Say,  will  my  friend  with  unreluctant  ear, 
,  The  history  of  a  poet  s  evening  hear  ? 

When,    in    the   south,    the    wan    noon, 

brooding  still,  [hill, 

Breathed  a  pale  steam  around  the  glaring 
And    shades    of    deep-embattled     clouds 

were  seen,  [between; 

Spotting   the  northern   cliffs,    with   lights 
When,  at  the  barren  wall's  unsheltered  end, 
Where  long  rails  far  into  the  lake  extend, 
Crowded  the  shorten'd  herds,  and  beat  the 

tides  [speckled  sides; 

With  their  quick  tails,  and  lashed  their 
When  school-boys  stretched  their  length 

upon  the  green;  [ing  scene! 

And  round  the  humming  elm,  a  glimmer- 
In  the  brown  park,  in  herds,   the  troubled 

deer  [ear; 

Shook  the  still-twinkling  tail  and  glancing 
When  horses  in  the  sunburnt  mtake'slood, 
And  vainly  eyed  below  the  tempting  flood, 
Or  tracked  the  passenger,  in  mute  distress, 
With    forward   neck   the   closing   gate   to 

press—  [rill 

Then  while  I  wandered  where  the  huddling 
Brightens  with  water-breaks  the  sombrous 

ghyll.1 
As  by  enchantment,  an  obscure  retreat 
Opened  at  once,  and  stayed   my  devious 

feet.  [close, 

While   thick  above  the  rill  the    branches 
In  rocky  basin  its  wild  waves  repose, 
Inverted    shrubs,    and    moss   of    gloomy 

green,  [weeds  between; 

Cling   Irom    the   rocks,    with   pale   wood- 
Save  that  aloft  the  subtle  sunbeams  shine 
On  withered   briars   that    o'er   the    crags 

recline, 
Sole  light  admitted  here,  a  small  cascade, 
Illumes  with  sparkling  foam  the  impervious 

shade; 
Beyond,  along  the  vista  of  the  brook, 
Where   antique  roots  its   bustling   course 

o'erlook, 

*  The  word  intake  is  locai_  and  signifies  a 
mountain  inclosure. 

t  Ghyll  is  also,  I  believe,  a  term  confined  to 
this  country  ,  ghyll  and  dingle  have  the  same 
meaning. 


The  eye  reposes  on  a  secret  bridge! 

Half  gray,    half  shagged   with   ivy  to  its 

ridge; 
Whence  hangs,  in  the  cool  shade,  the  list* 

less  swain 
Lingering  behind  his  disappearing  wain. 
— Did  Sabine  grace  adorn  rrv  living  line, 
Blandusias   praise,    wild    stream,    should 

yield  to  thine  ! 
Never  shall  ruthless  minister  of  death 
'Mid  thy  soft  glooms   the   glittering  steel 

unsheath;  [flowers, 

No  goblets  shall,  for  thee,  be  crowned  with 
No    kid    with    piteous    outcry  thrill  thy 

bowers ; 
The  mystic  shapes  that  by  thy  margin  rove 
j  A  more  benignant  sacrifice  approve; 
I  A  mind,  that,  in  a  calm  angelic  mood 
!  Of  happy  wisdom,  meditating  good, 
Beholds,    of    all    from    her  high   powers 

required  [desired, — 

Much  done,  and  much  designed,  and  more 
Harmonious  thoughts,  a  soul  by  truth  re- 
fined, 
Entire  affection  for  all  human-kind 

Sweet   rill,  farewell!  To-morrow's  noon 

again  [strain; 

Shall  hide  me,  wooing  long  thy  wiidwood 

But  now  the  sun  has   gained  his  western 

road.^  [abroad. 

And    eve's    mild   hour    invites  my  steps 

While,  near  the  midway  cliff,  the  silvered 

kite 
In  many  a  whistling  circle  wheels  her  flignt ; 
Slant  watery  lights,  from  parting  clouds, 

apace 
Travel  along  the  precipice's  base  ; 
Cheering    its   naked   waste    of   scattered 

stone,  [grown; 

By  lichens   gray,   and   scanty  moss,   o'er- 
Where  scarce  the  foxglove  peeps,  or  thistle's 

beard:  [heard. 

And  restless  stone-chat,  all  day   long,  is 

How  pleasant,  as  the  sun  declines,  to 

view 
The  spacious  landscape  change  in  form 

and  hue! 
Here,  vanish,  as  in  mist,  before  a  flood 
Of  bright  obscurity,  hill,  lawn,  and  wood; 

J  The  reader  who  has  made  the  tour  of  this 
country,  will  recognise,  in  this  description,  the 
features  which  characterize  the  lower  waterfali 
in  the  grounds  of  Rytlal. 


jrVFXTLF  P0EM8. 


There,    objects,   by   the  searching   beams 

hot  rayed, 
Come    forth,    and    here   retire  in   purple 

shade;  [white, 

Even  the  white  stems  of  birch,  the  cottage 
Soften  their  glare  before  the  mellow  light: 
The  skiffs,  at  anchor  where  with   umbrage 

wide  [hide, 

Yon  chestnuts  half  the  latticed  boat-house 
Shed   from   their  sides,  that  face  the  sun's 

slant  beam,  [lous  stream: 

Strong  flakes  of  radiance  on  the  trernu- 
Raised    by  yon  travelling  flock,   a  Uusty 

cloud  [moving  shroud; 

Mounts  from  the  road,  and  spreads  its 
The  shepherd,  all  involved  in  wreaths  of 

fire,  [lost  entire. 

Now  shows  a  shadowy  speck,  and  now  is 

Into  a  gradual  calm  the  zephyrs  sink: 
A  blue  rim  borders  all  the  lake's  still  brink; 
And  now,  on  every  side,  the  surface  breaks 
Into  blue  spots,  and   slowly   lengthening 

streaks;  [bright 

Here,  plots  of  sparkling  water  tremble 
With  thousand  thousand  twinkling   points 

of  light;  [away, 

There,   waves  that,  hardly  weltering,  die 
Tip  their  smooth  ridges  with  a  softer  ray, 
And  now  the  universal  tides  repose, 
And,   brightly  blue,    the  burnished  mirror 

glows, 
Save  where,  along  the  shady  western  marge, 
Coasts,  with  industrious  oar,  the  charcoal 

barge;  [sleeps, 

The  sails  are  dropped,  the  poplar's  foliage 
And   insects  clothe,    like  dust,  the  glassy 

deeps. 

Their  panniered  train  a  group  of  potters 
goad , 
Winding  from  side  to  side  up  the  steep  road; 
The  peasant,  from  yon  cliff  of  fearful  edge 
Shot,   down  the  headlong  path  darts  with 
Kis  sledge:  [illume, 

Bright   beams  the  lonely   mountain-horse 
Feeding 'mid  purple  heath,"  green  rings,"* 
and  broom ;  [confounds, 

While  the  sharp  slope  the  slackened  team 
Downward  the  ponderous  timber-wain  re- 
sounds; 
In  foamy  breaks  the  rill,  with  merry  song, 
Dashed  o'er  the  rough  rock,  liffrtly  leaps 
along; 


*  "  Vivid    rings    of   green."  —  Greenwood's 
Poem  on  Shooting. 


From  lonesome  chapel  at  the  mountain's 
feet, 

Three  humble  bells  their  rustic  chime  re- 
peat ;  [boat ; 

Sounds  from  the  water-side  the  hammered 

And  fi/ds/cJ  quarry  thunders,  heard  remote! 

Even  here,   amid   the  sweep  of  endless 

woods,  [floods, 

Blue  pomp  of  lakes,  high  cliffs,  and   ailing 

Not  undelightful  are  the  simplest  charms, 

Found  by  the    grassy  door  of   mountain 

farms. 

Sweetly    ferocious, t    round    his    native 

walks,  [stalks; 

Pride   of    his   sister-wives,    the    monarch 

Spur-clad   his  nervous  feet,  and  firm  his 

tread; 
A  crest  of  purple  tops  his  warrior  head. 
Bright  sparks  his  black  and  rolling  eye-ball 
Afar,  his  tail  he  closes  and  unfurls;    [hurls 
On   tiptoe   reared,    he   strains  his  clarion 
throat,  [remote: 

Threatened     by    faintly-answering    farms 
Again  with  his  shrill  voice  the  mountain 
rings,  [sound  his  wings! 

While,    flapped   with  conscious  pride,  re- 
Brightening   the   cliffs   between,    where 
sombrous  pine 
And  yew-tree  o'er  the  silver  rocks  recline; 
I  love  to  mark  the  quarry's  moving  trains, 
Dwarf   panniered   steeds,   and    men,   and 

numerous  wains: 
How  busy  all  the  enormous  hive  within, 
While  Echo  dallies  with  the  various  din! 
Some  (hardly  heard  their  chisels'  clinking 

sound) 
Toil,  small  as  pigmies  in  the  gulf  profound; 
Some,  dim  between  the  aerial  cliffs  de- 
scried, [side: 
O'erwalk  the  slender  plank  from  side  to 
These,  by  the  pale-blue  rocks  that  ceaseless 

ring, 
Glad  from  their  airy  baskets  hang  and  sing. 

Hung  o'er  a  cloud,  above  the  steep  that 

rears  [pears; 

An  edge  all  flame,  the  broadening  sun  ap- 

A  long  blue  bar  its  ?egis  orb  divides, 

And  breaks  the  spreading    of    its  golden 

tides; 

t  "  Dolcemente  feroce."  — Tasso.  In  tins 
description  of  the  cock,  I  remembered  a  spirited 
one  of  the  same  animal  in  the  "  L'Agriculturt; . 
ou,  Les  Georgiques  Franchises,"  of  W 
Rossuet. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  now  it  touches  on  the  purple  steep 
That  flings  his  shadow  on  the  pictured  deep. 
'Cross  the  calm  lake's  blue  shades  the  cliffs 

aspire  [fire;" 

With  towers  and  woods  a  "  prospect  all  on 
The  coves  and  secret  hollows,  through  a 

ray 
Of  fainter  gold,  a  purple  gleam  betray; 
The  gilded  turf  invests  with  richer  green 
Each  speck  of  lawn  the  broken  rocks  be- 
tween; [illume, 
Deep   yellow   beams   the   scattered   stems 
Far  in  the  level  forest's  central  gloom; 
Waving  his    hat,    the  shepherd,  from  the 

vale, 
Directs  his  winding  dog  the  cliffs  to  scale, 
That,    barking   busy,    'mid   the  glittering 

rocks,  [flocks. 

Hunts,  where  he  points,  the  intercepted 
Where  oaks  o'erhang  the  road  the  radiance 

shoots  [roots; 

On  tawny  earth,  wild  weeds,  and  twisted 
The  Druid  stones  their  lighted  fane  unfold, 
And  all   the  babbling   brooks  are   liquid 

gold; 
Sunk  to  a  curve,  the  day-star  lessens  still, 
Gives  one  bright  glance,  and  drops  behind 

the  hill.* 

In  these  secluded  vales,  if  village  fame, 
Confirmed  by  silver  hairs,  belief  may  claim; 
When   up  the  hills,   as  now,   retired    the 

light, 
Strange   apparitions  mocked    the   gazer's 

sight. 

A  desperate  form  appears,  that  spurs  his 

steed 
Along  the  midway  cliffs  with  violent  speed; 
Unhurt  pursues  his  lengthened  flight,  while 

all 
Attend,  at  every  stretch,  his  headlong  fall. 
Anon,  in  order  mounts  a  gorgeous  show 
Of  horsemen  shadows  moving  to  and  fro  ; 
At  intervals  imperial  banners  stream, 
And  now  the  van  reflects  the  solar  beam, 
The  rear  through   iron  brown  betrays  a 

sullen  gleam  ;  [they  go, 

Lost  gradual,  t  o'er  the  heights  in  pomp 
While  silent   stands  the  admiring   crowd 

below  ; 


*  From  Thomson.  See  Scott's  Critical 
Essays. 

t  See  a  description  of  an  appearance  of  this 
kind  in  Clark's  Survey  of  the  Lakes,"  accom- 
panied by  vouchers  of  it*  reracity  that  may 
amuse  the  reader. 


Till,  save  the  lonely  beacon,  all  is  fled, 
That  tips  with  eve's  last  gleam  his  spiry 
head. 

Now,      while      the      solemn      evening 

shadows  sail,  [vale; 

On    red   slow-waving  pinions,    down   the 
And,    fronting   the  bright  west,   yon   oak 

entwines  [lines, 

Its  darkening  boughs  and  leaves,  in  stronger 
How  pleasant  near   the   tranquil   lake   to 

stray 
Where  winds  the  road  along  a  secret  bay: 
Along   the    "wild   meandering  shore"   to 

view 
Obsequious  grace  the  windingswan  pursue: 
He  swells  his  lifted  chest,   and  backward 

flings  [wings; 

His   bridling  neck  between   his  towering 
In  all  the  majesty  of  ease,  divides, 
And,    glorying,   looks   around,    the   silent 

tides; 
On  as   he  floats,  the  silvered  waters  glow, 
Proud  of  the  varying  arch  and  moveless 

form  of  snow.  [loves, 

While   tender    cares    and   mild   domestic 
With    furtive    watch    pursue  her  as  she 

moves; 
The  female  with  a  meeker  charm  succeeds, 
And    her    brown   little-ones    around   her 

leads, 
Nibbling  the  water  lilies  as  they  pass, 
Or  playing  wanton  with  the  floating  grass. 
She,  in  a  mother's  care,  her  beauty's  pride 
Forgets,  unwearied  watching  every  side; 
She  calls   them  near,   and  with  affection 

sweet 
Alternately  relieves  their  weary  feet; 
Alternately  they  mount  her  back,  and  rest 
Close  by  her  mantling  wings'   embraces 

prest. 

Long  may  ye  float  upon  these  floods 
serene;  [green, 

Yours  be  these  holms  untrodden,  still,  and 

Whose  lofty  shades  fence  off  the  blustering 
gale, 

Where  breathes  in  peace  the  lily  of  the  vale. 

Yon  isle,  which  feels  not  even  the  milk- 
maid's feet,  [more  sweet," 

Yet  hears  her  song,    "by  distance   made 

Yon  isle  conceals  your  home,  your  cottage 
bower, 

Fresh  water-rushes  strew  the  verdant  floor; 

Long  grass  and  willows  form  the  woven 
wall, 

And  swings  above  the  roof  the  poplar  tall. 


JVVENILFj  poems. 


5 


Thence  issuing  often  with  unwieldy  si. ilk, 
With    broad '  black    feet    ye    crush   your 

flowery  walk;  [morn 

Or,  from  the  neighbouring  water,  hear  at 
The  hound,  the  horse's  tread,  and  mellow 

horn;  fjings, 

Involve  your  serpent  necks  in  changeful 
Rolled   wantonly    between    your  slippery 

wings, 
Or,  starting  up  with  noise  and  rude  delight, 
Force  half  upon  the  wave  your  cumbrous 

Might, 

Fair     swan  !    by    all   a    mother's    joys 
caressed,  [thee  blessed; 

1  taply  some  wretch  has  eyed,   and  called 
L'he  whilst  upon"  some  sultry  summer's  day 
She   dragged  her  babes  along  this  weary 
way ;  [road 

Or  taught  their  limbs  along  the  burning 
A  few  short  steps  to  totter  with  their  load. 

I  see  her  now,  denied  to  lay  her  head, 
On  cold  blue  nights,  in  hut  or  straw-built 

shed. 
Turn  to  a  silent  smile  their  sleepy  cry, 
By  pointing  to  a  shooting  star  on  high: 
I  hear,  while  in  the  forest  depth,  he  sees 
The  moon's  fixed  gaze  between  the  opening 

trees, 
In  broken  sounds  her  elder  child  demand, 
And  skyward  lift,    like  one   that  prays,  his 

hand, 
If,  in  that  country,  where  he  dwells  afar, 
His  father  views  thatgood,  that  kindly  star; 
— Ah  me!  all  light  is  mute  amid  the  gloom, 
The  interlunar  cavern,  of  the  tomb. 
— When    low-hung   clouds    each   star    of 

summer  hide, 
And  fireless  are  the  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Where  the  brook  brawls  along  the  painful 

road,  [broad, 

Dark  with  bat-haunted  ashes  stretching 
Oft  has  she  taught  them  on  her  lap  to  play 
Delighted,  with  the  glow-worm's  harmless 

ray  [the  ground 

Tossed  light  from  hand  to  hand;  while  on 
>mall   circles    of    green    radiance    gleam 

around. 

Oh!  when  the  sleety  showers  her  path 

assail, 
^nd  roars  between  the  hills  the  torrent  gale; 
No  more  her  breath  can  thaw  their  fingers 

cold,  [fold; 

Their  frozen  arms  her  neck  no  more  can 
Weak  roof  a  cowering  form  two  babes  to 

shield, 
And  faint  the  fire  a  dying  heart  can  yield! 


Press  the  sad  kiss,  fond  mother!  vainly 
fears  [tears; 

Thy  flooded  cheek  to  wet   them  with  Us 

No  tears  can  chill  them,  and  no  bosom 
warms,  [arms. 

Thy  breast  their  death-bed,  coffined  iuthmc 

Sweet  are  the  sounds  that  mingle  from 

rf.ir,  [star, 

Heard  by  calm  lakes,  as  peeps  the  folding 
Where  the  duck  dabbles   'mid  the  rustling 

sedge,  [edge, 

And  feeding  pike  starts  from   the  water's 
Or  the  swan  stirs  the  reeds,    his  neck  and 

bill 
Wetting,  that  drip  upon  the  water  still; 
And  heron,  as  resounds  the  trodden  shore, 
Shoots    upward,    darting    his    long    neck 

before. 

Now  with   religious   awe,    the   farewell 
light  [night; 

Blends  with  the  solemn  colouring  of  the 
'Mid  groves  of  clouds  that  crest  the  moun- 
tain's brow,  [shadows  throw, 
And  round  the  west's  proud  lodge  their 
Like  Una  shining  on  her  gloomy  way, 
The    half-seen    form    of  Twilight   roams 
astray,  [small, 
Shedding,  through  paly  loopholes  mild  and 
Gleams  that  upon  the  lake's  still  bosom 
fall;  [pale, 
Soft   o'er  the  surface  creep  those  lustres 
Tracking  the  fitful  motions  of  the  gale. 
With  restless  interchange  at  once  the  bright 
Wins  on  the  shade,    the  shade  upon  the 

light. 
No  favoured  eye  was  e  er  allowed  to  gaze 
On  lovelier  spectacle  in  faery  days  ; 
When     gentle    spirits     urged    a   sportive 

chase, 
Brushing  with  lucid  wands  the  water's  face; 
While  music,  stealing  round  the  glimmer- 
ing deeps,  [steeps. 
Charmed  the  tall  circle  of  the  enchanted 
— The  lights  are  vanished  from  the  watery 

plains: 
No  wreck  of  all  the  pageantry  remains. 
Unheeded  night  has  overcome  the  vales: 
On  the  dark  earth  the  baffled  vision  fails; 
The  latest  lingerer  of  the  forest  train, 
The  lone  black  fir,  forsakes  the  faded  plain  ; 
Last  evening  sight,   the  cottage  smoke,  no 
more,  [hoar; 

Lost  in  the  thickened  darkness,  glimmers 
And,  towering  from  the  sullen  dark-brown 
mere,  [appear, 

Like   a  black   wall,  the  mountain   steep' 


8 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


— Now  o'er  the  soothed  accordant  heart  we 

feel 
A  sympathetic  twilight  slowly  steal, 
And  ever,  as  we  fondly  muse,  we  find 
The  soft  gloom  deepening  on  the  tranquil 

mind. 
Stay  !  pensive,  sadly-pleasing  visions,  stay  ! 
Ah  no  !  as  fades  the  vale,  they  fade  away: 
Yet  still  the  tender,  vacant  gloom  remains; 
Still  the   cold   cheek   its  shuddering   tear 

retains. 

The  bird,  who  ceased,  with  fading  light, 

to  thread 
Silent  the  hedge  or  streaming  rivulet's  bed, 
From    his  gray   re-appearing   tower  shall 

soon 
Salute  with  boding  note  the  rising  moon, 
Frosting  with  hoary  light  the  pearly  ground, 
And  pouring  deeper  blue  to  ether's  bound ; 
And  pleased  her  solemn  pomp  of  clouds  to 

fold 
In  robes  of  azure,  fleecy-white,  and  gold. 

See,  o'er  the  eastern  hill,  where  darkness 

broods  [woods; 

O'er  all  its  vanished  dells,  and  lawns,  and 
Where  but  a  mass  of  shade  the  sight  can 

trace. 
She  lifts  in  silence  up  her  lovely  face; 
Above  the  gloomy  valley  flings  her  light, 
Far  to   the  western  slopes  with   hamlets 

white;  [upland  strew, 

And   gives,    where   woods    the   chequered 
To   the  green  corn  of  summer  autumn's 

hue. 

Thus    Hope,    first    pouring    from     her 

blessed  horn  [own  morn; 

Her  dawn,   far  lovelier   than   the   moon's 

Till  higher  mounted,  strives  in  vain  to  cheer 

The   weary   hills,   impervious,   blackening 

near;  [while 

Yet  does   she   still,  undaunted,  throw  the 

On   darling    spots  remote    her    tempting 

smile. 

Even   now  she  decks  for   me   a  distant 

scene,  [between) 

(For    dark    and    broad   the  gulf  of  time 

Gilding  that  cottage  with  her  fondest  ray, 

(Sole  bourne,  sole  wish,  sole  object  of  my 

way;  [appear! 

How  fair  its  lawns  and  sheltering  woods 

How  sweet  its  streamlet  murmurs  in  mine 

ear!)  [rise, 

Where  we,  my  friend,  to  happy  days  shall 

Till  our  small   share   of    hardly-paining 

sighs 


(For  sighs  will  ever  trouble  human  breath) 
Creep  hushed  into  the  tranquil  breast  of 
death. 

But  now  the  clear-bright  moon  her  zenith 
gains, 
And  rimy  without  speck  extend  the  plains; 
The  deepest  dell  the  mountain's  front  dis- 
plays, [rays; 
Scarce  hides  a  shadow  from  her  searching 
From   the  dark-blue  faint  silvery  threads 

divide 
Thehills,  whilegleams  below  the  azure  tide; 
The  scene  is  wakened,  yet  its  peace  unbroke, 
By  silvered  wreaths  of  quiet  charcoal  smoke, 
That,  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  fallen  wood, 
Steal  down  the  hill,  and  spread  along  the 
flood. 

The  song  of  mountain  streams,  unheard 
by  day,  [way. 

Now  hardly  heard,  beguiles  my  homeward 
All  air  is,  as  the  sleeping  water,  still, 
Listening  the  aerial  music  of  the  hill, 
Broke  only  by  the  slow  clock  tolling  deep, 
Or  shout  that  wakes  the   ferryman   from 

sleep, 
Soon  followed  by  his  hollow-parting  oar, 
And    echoed    hoof    approaching   the    fat 
shore;  [borne, 

Sound   of  closed   gate,    across   the  watei 
Hurrying  the  feeding  hare  through  rustling 

corn; 
The  tremulous  sob  of  the  complaining  owl; 
And  at  long  intervals  the  mill-dog's  howl; 
The  distant   forge's  swinging  thump  pro- 
found; 
Or    yell,    in    the   deep   woods,    of  lonely 
hound. 


LINES 


WRITTEN   WHILE  SAILING  IN   A  BOAT  AT 
EVENING. 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast 
Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues, 
While,  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 
The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues  ! 
And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream  ! 
A  little  moment  past  so  smiling  ! 
And  still,   perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam, 
Some  other  loiterers  beguiling. 

Such  views  the  youthful  bard  allure  ; 
But,  heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 
He  deems  their  colours  shall  endure 
Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb, 


JUVENILE  POBMS 


And  let  him  muse  his  fond  deceit, 
And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow  ! 
Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet, 
Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-mor- 
row ? 


REMEMBRANCE  OF  COLLINS. 

COMPOSED     UPON     THE     THAMES,      NEAR 
RICHMOND. 

tiuDE  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide, 
O  Thames  !  that  other  bards  may  see 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 
As  now,  fair  river  !  come  to  me. 
Oh,  glide,  fair  stream,  forever  so  ! 
Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing,. 
Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow, 
As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 

Vain  thought  !— Yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 
That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen 
The  image  of  a  poet's  heart — 
How  bright,  how  solemn,  how  serene  ! 
Such  as  did  once  the  poet  bless, 
Who  murmuring  here  a  later*  ditty, 
Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress 
But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 

Now  let  us,  as  we  float  along, 
For  him  suspend  the  dashing  oar, 
And  pray  that  never  child  of  song 
May  know  that  poet's  sorrows  more. 
How  calm  !  how  still !  the  only  sound 
The  dripping  of  the  oar  suspended  ! 
The  evening  darkness  gathers  round, 
By  virtue's  holiest  powers  attended. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES 

TAKEN  DURING  A  PEDESTRIAN  TOUR 
AMONG  THE  ALPS. 

Were  there,  below,  a  spot  of  holy  ground 
Where   from   distress  a  refuge   might  be 

found, 
And  solitude  prepare  the  soul  for  heaven  ; 
Sure,  nature's  God  that  spot  to  man  had 

given, 


*  Collins's  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson ;  the 
iast  written,  I  believe,  of  the  poems  which  were 
published  during  his  lifetime.  This  ode  is  also 
alluded  to  in  the  next  stanza. 


Where  fills   the  purple  morning  far  and 

wide 
In  flakes  of  light  upon  the  mountain  side  ; 
Where  with  loud  voice  the  power  of  water 

shake  • 
The  leafy  wood,  or  sleeps  in  quiet  lakes. 

Yet  not  unrecompenscd  the  man  shall 

roam, 
Who  at  the  call  of  summer  quits  his  home, 
And  plods  through  some  far  realm  o'er  vale 

and  height, 
Though  seeking  only  holiday  delight  ; 
At  least,  not  owning  to  himself  an  aim 
To  which  the  sage  would  give  a  prouder 

name. 
No  gains  too  cheaply  earned  his  fancy  cloy, 
Though  every  passing  zephyr  whispers  joy  ! 
Brisk  toil,  alternating  with  ready  ease, 
Feeds  the  clear  current  of  his  sympathies. 
For  him  sod-seats  the  cottage  door  adorn  ; 
And  peeps  the  far-off  spire,   his  evening 

bourn ! 
Dear  is  the  forest  frowning  o'er  his  head, 
And  dear    the  velvet  greensward   to    his 

tread  :  [eye? 

Moves  there  a  cloud  o'er  mid-day's  flaming 
Upward  he  looks — "  and  calls  it  luxury  ;" 
Kind  nature's  charities  his  steps  attend  ; 
In  every  babbling  brook  he  finds  a  friend  ; 
Whiie  chastening  thoughts  of  sweetest  use, 

bestowed 
By  wisdom,  moralize  his  pensive  road. 
Host  of  his  welcome   inn,    the   noon-tide 

bower, 
To  his  spare  meal  he  calls  the  passing  poor  ; 
He  views  the  sun  uplift  his  golden  fire, 
Or  sink,    with  heart  alive  like  Memnon's 

lyre;r  [ray, 

Blesses  the  moon  that  comes  with  kindly 
To  light  him  shaken  by  his  rugged  way  ; 
With  bashful  fear  no  cottage  children  steal 
From  him,  a  brother  at  the  cottage  meal ; 
His  humble  looks  no  shy  restraint  impart, 
Around  him  plays  at  will  the  virgin  heart. 
While  unsuspended  wheels  t  hevillage  dance, 
The  maidens  eye  him  with  inquiring  glance, 
Much  wondering  what  sad  stroke  of  craz- 
ing care  [there. 
Or  desperate  love  could  lead  a  wanderer 

Me,  lured  by  hope  her  sorrows  to  remove, 
A  heart  that  could  not  much  herself  ap- 
prove, 


t  The  lyre  of  Memnon  is  reported   to  have 
emitted  melancholy  or  cheerful   torn:-;,  as  it  wa> 
touched  by  the  sun's  evening  or  morning  r;i\ 
I) 


R 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


O'er  Gallia's  wastes  of  corn  dejected  led, 
Her  road  elms  rustling  high  above  my  head, 
Or   through   her  truant  pathways'    native 

charms, 
By  secret  villages  and  lonely  farms, 
To  where  the  Alps  ascending  white  in  air, 
Toy  with  the  sun,  and  glitter  from  afar. 

And   now,    emerging   from   the  forest's 

gloom, 
I  heave  a  sigh  at  hoary  Chartreuse'  doom. 
Where  now  is  fled  that  power  whose  frown 

severe  [fear  ? 

Tamed  sober  reason  till  she  crouched  in 
The  cloister  startles  at  the  gleam  of  arms, 
And  blasphemy  the  shuddering  fane  alarms; 
Nod  the  cloud-piercing  pines  their  troubled 

heads  ;  [o'erspreads  ; 

Spires,  rocks,  and  lawns,  a  browner  night 


Or,  from  the  bending  rocks,  obtrusive  cling, 
And  o'er  the  whitened  wave  their  shadows 

fling- 
The  pathway  leads,  as  round  the  steeps  it 

twines, 
And  Silence  loves  its  purple  roof  of  vines  ; 
The  viewless  lingerer  hence,   at  evening, 

sees  [the  trees  ; 

From  rock-hewn  steps  the  sail  between 
Or  marks,  'mid  opening  cliffs,  fair  dark- 
eyed  maids  [glades, 
Tend  the  small  harvest  of  their  garden 
Or  stops  the  solemn  mountain-shades  to 

view  [and  blue, 

Stretch    o'er  the   pictured   mirror    broad 
Tracking  the    yellow  sun  from    steep    to 

steep, 
As  up  the  opposing  hills  with  tortoise  foot 

fhey  creep. 
Strong  terror  checks  the  female  peasant's  j  Here,  half  a  village  shines,  in  gold  arrayed, 


sighs,  [eyes 

And  start  the  astonished  shades  at  female 
That  thundering  tube  the  aged  angler  hears, 
And  swells  the  groaning  torrent  with  his 

tears  ;  [jay, 

From  Bruno's  forest  screams  the  affrighted 
And  slow  the  insulted  eagle  wheels  away. 
The  cross,  with  hideous  laughter,  demons 

mock, 
By  angels  planted  oh  the  aerial  rock 


Bright  as  the  moon  ;  half  hides  itself  in 
shade :  [spire, 

While,   from  amid  the  darkened  roofs  the 

Restlessly  flashing,  seems  to  mount  like 
fire  : 

There,  all  unshaded,  blazing  forests  throw 

Rich  golden  verdure  on  the  waves  below. 

Slow  glides  the  sail  along  the  illuminsd 
shore, 

And  steals  into  the  shade  the  lazy  oar  ; 


The   "  parting  genius"  sighs  with  hollow  j  Soft  bosoms   breathe  around    contagious 

breath  [  Death. t  |  sighs, 

Along    the   mystic    streams    of  Life   and  |  And  amorous  music  on  the  water  dies. 
Swelling  the  outcry  dull,  that  long  resounds 


How  blest,  delicious  scene  !  the  eye  that 
greets 

Thy  open  beauties,  or  thy  lone  retreats  ; 

The  unwearied  sweep  of  wood  thy  cliffs 
that  scales  ; 

The  never-ending  waters  of  thy  vales  ; 

The  cots,  those  dim  religious  groves  em- 
bower, 

Or,  under  rocks  that  from  the  water  tower, 

Insinuated,  sprinkling  all  the  shore  ; 


Portentous  through  her  old  woods'  track- 
less bounds, 
Vallombre.fmid  her  falling  fanes,  deplores, 
For  evar  broke,  the  sabbath  of  her  bowers. 

More  pleased,  my  foot  the  hidden  mar- 
gin roves 
Of  Como,  bosomed  deep  in  chestnut  groves, 
No  meadows  thrown  between,   the  giddy 
steeps  [deeps. 

Tower,  bare  or  sylvan,   from  the  narrow  ,  E 

— To  towns,  whose  shades  of  no  rude  sound  [Each  with  its  household  boat  beside  the 
complain,  [wain,  !  _._  door-       ..        _      .       ■  [droop, 

To   ringing   team   unknown   and   grating '  ^hose    flaccid    sails    in    forms    fantastic 
To  flat-roofed  towns,  that  touch  the  water's  ;  BnS^ening   the   gloom   where   thick   the' 

bound,  j  forests  stoop ;  [sky. 

Or  lurk  in  woody  sunless  glens  profound,    !  £  '7  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear-blue 

j  ihy  towns,  that  cleave,  like  swallows  nests, 

on  high  ;  [descried 

*  Alluding  to  crosses  seen  on  the  tops  of  the    That    glimmer   hoar   in    eve  s    last    light 

spiry  rocks  of    Chartreuse,  which  have  every    Dim  from  the  twilight  water's  shagey  si^e 

appearance  of  bein»  inaccessible.  wru „„   i,,» j  j  ,  ' 

t  Names  of  rivers  at  the  Chartreuse.  Whence   lutes   and    voices    down      he    en- 

t  Name  of  one  of  the  valleys  of  the  Char-  chanted  woods  | floods; 

treuse.  j  Steal,    and     compose     the    oar-forgotten 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


—Thy  lake,  'mid  smoking  woods,  that  blue 
and  gray  [morning's  ray 

Gleams,    streaked  or    dappled,   hid    from 
Slow  travelling  down  the  western  hills,  to 
fold  [gold  ; 

Its   green-tinged   margin    in   a    blaze    of 
From  thickly-glittering  spires,   the  matin 

bell 
Calling  the  woodman  from  his  desert  cell, 
A  summons  to  the  sound  of  oars,  that  pass, 
Spotting  the  steaming  deeps,  to  early  mass; 
Slow  swells  the  service,  o'er  the  water 
borne,  [of  morn. 

While  fill  each  pause  the  ringing  woods 
Farewell  those  forms  that  in  thy  noontide 
shade,  [glade ; 

Rest,   near    their   little  plots   of  wheaten 
Those  charms  that  bind  the  soul  in  power- 
less trance, 
Lip-dewing  song,  and  ringlet-tossing  dance. 
Where  sparkling  eyes  and  breaking  smiles 

illume 
The  sylvan  cabin's  lute-enlivened  gloom. 
— Alas  !  the  very  murmur  of  the  streams 
Breathes  o'er  the  failing  soul  voluptuous 
dreams,  [dwell 

While  slavery,   forcing  the  sunk  mind  to 
On  joys  that  might  disgrace  the  captive's 
cell,  [marge, 

Her  shameless  timbrel  shakes  on  Como's 
And  winds,  from  bay  to  bay,   the   vocal 
barge. 
Yet  arts  are  thine  that  soothe  the  unquiet 
heart, 
And  smiles  to  solitude  and  want  impart. 
I  loved  by  silent  cottage-doors  to  roam, 
The  far-off  peasant's  day-deserted  home  ; 
And  once  I  pierced  the  mazes  of  a  wood, 
Where,    far   from   public  haunt,    a  cabin 

stood ; 
There  by  the  door  a  hoary-headed  sire 
Touched  with  his  withered  hand  an  ancient 

lyre  ; 
Beneath  an  old  gray  oak,  as  violets  lie, 
Stretched   at   his  feet  with   steadfast  up- 
ward eye,  [sound  : 
His   children's   children   joined    the  holy 
— A  hermit  with  his  family  around  ! 

But  let  us  hence,  for  fair  Locarno  smiles 
Embowered  in  walnut  slopes  and  citron 

isles  ; 
Or  seek  at  eve  the  banks  of  Tusa's  stream,* 
While,  'mid  dim  towers  and  woods,   her 

waters  gleam  ; 

•  The  river  along  whose  banks  you  descend 
in  crossing  the  Alps  by  the  Simplon  Pass. 


From  the  bright  wave,  in  solemn  gloom, 

retire 
The  dull-red  steeps,  and,  darkening,  still 

aspire, 
To  where  afar  rich  orange  lustres  glow 
Round  undistinguished  clouds,  and  rocks, 

and  snow, 
Or,  led  where  Via  Mala's  chasms  confine 
The  indignant  waters  of  the  infant  Rhine, 
Hang  o'er  the  abyss  : — the  else  impervious 

gloom 
His  burning  eyes  with  fearful  light  illume. 

The   Grison   gipsy   here  her   tent   hath 
placed, 
Sole  human  tenant  of  the  piny  waste  ; 
Her   tawny  skin,    dark   eyes,    and  glossy 
locks,  [rocks. 

Bend  o'er  the  smoke  that  curls  beneath  the 
The  mind  condemned,  without  reprieve,  to 
go  [woe, 

O'er  life's  long  deserts  with  its  charge  of 
With  sad  congratulation  joins  the  train. 
Where  beasts  and  men  together  o'er  the 

plain 
Move  on — a  mighty  caravan  of  pain  ; 
Hope,  strength,  and  courage,  social  suffer- 
ing brings,  [and  springs. 
Freshening  the  waste  of  sand  with  shades 
She,  solitary,  through  the  desert  drear 
Spontaneous  wanders,  hand  in  hand  with 
Fear. 

A  giant  moan  along  the  forest  swells 
Protracted,    and  the  twilight  storm  fore- 
tells, 
And,  ruining  from  the  cliffs,  their  deafen- 
ing load  [abroad ; 
Tumbles, — the    wildering    thunder    slips 
On  the  high  summits  darkness  comes  and 
goes,  [snows ; 
Hiding  their  fiery  clouds,  their  rocks,  and 
The     torrent,    traversed     by     the     lustre 

broad, 
Starts    like    a    horse    beside   the   flashing 

road ; 
In  the  roofed  bridge, t  at  that  terrific  hour, 
She   seeks   a  shelter    from    the  battering 
shower.  [ing  wood 

— Fierce  comes  the  river  down  ;  the  crash- 
Gives  way,  and  half  its  pines  torment  the 
flood  ; 

t  Most  of  the  bridges  among  the  Alps  are  of 
wood  and  covered  ;  these  bridges  have  a  heavy 
appearance,  and  rather  injure  the  effect  of  tlic 
scenery  in  some  places. 


10 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Fearful,  beneath  the  water-spirits  call,* 
And  the  bridge  vibrates,  tottering   to   its 
fall. 

Heavy,  and  dull,  and  cloudy  is  the  night; 
No  star  supplies  the  comfort  of  its  light, 
Glimmer  the  dim-lit  Alps,  dilated  round, 
And  one  sole  light  shitts  in  the  vale  pro- 
found ; 
While   opposite,  the  waning  moon   hangs 

still 
And  red,  above  the  melancholy  hill. 
By  the  deep   gloom  appalled,   the   gipsy 

sighs,  [eyes. 

Stoops  her  sick  head,  and  shuts  her  weary 
She    hears,    upon    the    mountain-forest's 

brow,  [below  ; 

The  death-dog,  howling  loud  and  long, 
On  viewless  fingers  counts  the  valley-clock, 
Followed  by  drowsy  crow  of  midnight  cock. 
The  dry  leaves  stir  as  with  a  serpent's  walk, 
And,  far  beneath,  banditti  voices  talk  ; 
Behind  her  hill,   the  moon,  all  crimson, 

rides, 
And  his  red  eyes  the  slinking  water  hides. 
—Vexed  by  the  darkness,  from  the  piny 

gulf 
Ascending,  nearer  howls  the  famished  wolf, 
While  through  the  stillness  scatters  wild 

dismay  [prey. 

Her  babe's  small  cry,  that  leads  him  to  his 

Now,  passing  Urseren's  open  vale  serene, 
Her   quiet   streams,    and  hills   of   downy 

green,  [Terror's  breath, 

Plunge  with  the  Reuss  embrowned  by 
Where  danger  roofs  the  narrow  walks  of 

death  ;  [dizzy  height, 

By  floods,  that,  thundering  from  their 
Swell  more  gigantic  on  the  steadfast  sight; 
Black  drizzling  crags,  that,  beaten  by  the 

din, 
Vibrate,  as  if  a  voice  complained  within  ; 
Bare  steeps,  where  Desolation  stalks,  afraid, 
U  nsteadfast,  by  a  blasted  yew  upstayed  ; 
By  cellst   whose  image,    trembling  as  he 

prays,  [surveys  ; 

Awe-struck,    the   kneeling  peasant  scarce 


*  "  Red  came  the  river  down   and  loud,  and  oft 
The  angry  spirit  of  the  water  shriek'd." 

— Home's  Douglas. 

t  The  Catholic  religion  prevails  here  ;  these 
cells  are,  as  is  well  known,  very  common  in 
Catholic  countries,  planted,  like  the  Roman 
tombs,  along  the  roadside. 


Loose-hanging  rocks  the  day's  blessed  eye 

that  hide, 
And  crosses!  rear'd  to  death  on  every  side, 
Which   with  cold  kiss   Devotion  planted 

near, 
And,  bending,  watered  with  the  human  tear, 
That  faded  silent  from  her  upward  eye, 
Unmoved  with  each  rude  form  of  danger 

nigh, 
Fixed  on  the  anchor  left  by  Him  who  saves 
Alike  in  whelming  snows  and  roaring  waves. 

On  as  we  move,  a  softer  prospect  opes, 
Calm  huts,  and  lawns  between,  and  sylvan 
slopes.  [gale, 

While   mists,    suspended  on  the  expiring 
Moveless  o'erhang  the  deep  secluded  vale, 
The  beams  of  evening  slipping  soft  between, 
Gently  illuminate  a  sober  scene  ; 
Winding  its  dark-green  wood  and  emerald 

glade, 
The  still   vale   lengthens   underneath   the 
shade  ;  [recede, 

While  in  soft  gloom  the  scattering  bowers 
Green  dewy  lights  adorn  the  freshened  mead , 
On  the  low  brown  wood-huts  §  delighted 

sleep 
Along  the  brightened  gloom  reposing  deep. 
While  pastoral  pipes  and  streams  the  land- 
scape lull, 
And  bells  of  passing  mules  that  tinkle  dull, 
In  solemn  shapes  before  the  admiring  eye 
Dilated  hang  the  misty  pines  on  high, 
Huge  convent  domes  with  pinnacles  and 
towers,  [showers. 

And  antique  castles  seen  through  drizzling 

From  such  romantic  dreams,    my  soul, 

awake  ! 
Lo !  Fear  looks  silent  down  on  Uri's  lake, 
Where  by  the   unpathwayed  margin,  still 

and  dread,  [tread. 

Was  never  heard  the  plodding  peasant's 
Tower  like  a  wall  the  naked  rocks,  or  reach 
Far  o'er  the  secret  water  dark  with  beech  ; 
More  high,  to  where  creation  seems  to  end, 
Shade  above  shade,  the  aerial  pines  ascend, 
Yet  with  his  infants  man  undaunted  creeps 
And  hangs  his  small  wood-cabin  on  the 

steeps. 


}  Crosses  commemorative  of  the  deaths  of 
travellers  by  the  fall  of  snow,  and  other  acci- 
dents, are  very  common  along  this  dreadful 
road. 

§  The  houses  in  the  more  retired  Swiss  valleys 
are  all  built  of  wood. 


\ 


JUVENILE  rOFMft. 


It 


Where'er  below  amid  the  savage  scene 
Peeps  out  a  little  speck  of  smiling  green, 
A  garden-plot  the  desert  air  perfumes, 
'Mid  the  dark  pines  a  little  orchard  blooms; 
A  zig-zag  path  from  the  domestic  skiff, 
Threadingthe  painful  crag,  surmounts  the 

cliff.  [know  ; 

— Before   those   hermit   doors,    that  never 
The  face  of  traveller  passing  to  and  fro, 
No  peasant  leans  upon  his  pole,  to  tell 
For  whom  at  morning  tolled   the   funeral 

bell  ;  [foregoes, 

Their  watch-dog  ne'er  his  angry  bark 
Touched  by  the  beggar's  moan  of  human 

woes  ;  [shade 

The   grassy  seat   beneath  their  casement 
The  pilgrim's  wistful  eye  hath  never  stayed. 
— There,  did  the  iron  genius  not  disdain 
The  gentle  power  that  haunts  this  myrtle 

plain,  [chide 

There  might  the  love-sick  maiden  sit,  and 
The  insuperable  rocks  and  severing  tide  ; 
There  watch  at  eve  her  lover's  sun-gilt  sail 
Approaching,  and  upbraid  the  tardy  gale  ; 
1  here  list  at  midnight  till  is  heard  no  more, 
Beluw,  the  echo  of  his  parting  oar. 

'Mid  stormy  vapours  ever  driving  by, 
Whore  ospreys,  cormorants,  and  herons  cry, 
Hovering  o'er  rugged  wastes  too  bleak  to 

rear  I ear  '< 

That  common  growth  of  earth,  the  foodful 
Where  the  green  apple  shrivels  on  thespray, 
And  pines  the  unripened  pear  in  summer's 

kindliest  ray  ; 
Even  here  Content  has  fixed  her  smiling 

reign 
With  Independence,  child  of  high  Disdain. 
Exulting,  'mid  the  winter  of  the  skies, 
Shy  as  the  jealous  chamois,  Freedom  flies, 
And  often  grasps  her  sword,  and  often  eyes; 
Her  crest  a  bough  of  winter's  bleakest  pine, 
Strange  weeds  and  Alpine  plants  her  helm 

entwine, 
And,  wildly-pausing,  oft  she  hangs  aghast, 
While  thrills  the   "Spartan  fife,"  between 

the  blast. 

'Tis  storm  ;  and  hid  in  mist  from  hour  to 
hour,  [pour ; 

All  day  the  floods  a  deepening   murmur 
The  sky  is  veiled,  and  every  cheerful  sight: 
Dark  is  the  region  as  with  coming  night; 
But  what  a  sudden  burst  of  overpowering 

light  ! 
Triumph. .nt  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm 
Glances  the  fire-clad  eagle's  wheeling  form; 


Eastward,    in   long  perspective  glittering, 
shine  [recline; 

The  wood-crowned  cliffs  that  o'er  the  lake 
Wide  o'er   the  Alps   a   hundred  streams 
unfold,  [gold: 

At  once  to  pillars   turned  that  flame  with 
Behind  his  sail  the  peasant  strives  to  rhun 
The  west  that  burns  like  one  dilated  sun, 
Where  in  a  mighty  crucible  expire 
The  mountains,  glowing-hot,  like  coals  of 
fire. 

But  lo  !  the  boatman,  overawed,  before 
The  pictured  fane  of  Tell  suspends  his  oar; 
Confused  the  Marathonian  tale  appears, 
While  burn  in   his  full   eyes  the  glorious 

tears.  [days 

And  who  that  walks  where  men  of  ancient 
Have  wrought  with  godlike  arm  the  deeds 

of  praise, 
Feels  not  the  spirit  of  the  place  control, 
Exalt,  and  agitate  his  labouring  soul? 
Say,  who,  by  thinking  on  Canadian  hills, 
Or  wild  Aosta  lulled  by  Alpine  rills, 
On  Zutphen's  plain;  or  where,  with  softened 

gaze,  [veys  ; 

The  old  gray  stones  the  plaided  chief  sur- 
Can  guess  the  high  resolve,  the  cherished 

pain, 
Of  him  whom  passion  rivets  to  the  plain, 
Where    breathed    the    gale    that    caught 

Wolfe's  happiest  sigh, 
And  the  last  sunbeam  fell  on  Bayard's  eye; 
Where  bleeding  Sidney  from  the  cupretired, 
And  glad  Dundee  in  ' '  faint  huzzas"  expired ! 

But  now  with  other  mind  I  stand  alone 
Upon  the  summit  of  this  naked  cone, 
And  watch,  from  peak  to  peak  amid  the  sky 
Small  as  a  bird  the  chamois  chaser  fly,* 
Through  vacant  worlds  where  nature  nevei 

gave 
A  brook  to  murmur  or  a  bough  to  wave, 
Which    unsubstantial    phantoms      sacred 

keep  ;  [and  motion  sleep  , 

Through  worlds  where  life,  and  sound, 
Where  silence   still    her  death-like   reign 

extends,  [rends 

Save  when  the  startling  cliff  unfrequent 
In  the  deep  snow  the  mighty  ruin  drowned. 
Mocks    the   dull    ear  of   time  with    deaf 

abortive  sound.  [to  height, 

—Tis  his  while  wandering  on,  from  height 


•  For  most  of  the  images  in  the  next  sixteen 
verses  I  am  .ndebted  to  M.  Raymond's  inte- 
resting observations  annexed  to  his  translation 
of  Coxc's  Tour  in  Switzerland. 


12 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


To  see  a  planet's  pomp  and  steady  light 
In  the  least  star  of  scarce-appearing  night, 
While  the  near  moon,  that  coasts  the  vast 

profound 
Wheelspaleandsilentherdiminished  round, 
And  far  and  wide  the  icy  summits  blaze, 
Rejoicing  in  the  glory  of  her  rays : 
To   him   the  day-star  glitters    small  and 

bright, 
Shorn  of  its  beams,  insufferably  white, 
And  he  can  look  beyond  the  sun,  and  view 
Those  fast-receding  depths  of  sable  blue, 
Flying  till  vision  can  no  more  pursue  ! 
— At  once  bewildering  mists  around  him 

close, 
And  cold  and  hunger  are  his  least  of  woes; 
The  demon  of  the  snow,  with  angry  roar 
Descending,  shuts  for  aye  his  prison  door. 
Then  with  despair's  whole  weight  his  spirits 

sink.  [drink, 

No  bread  to  feed  him,  and  the  snow  his 
While,  ere  his  eyes  can  close  upon  the  day, 
The  eagle  of  the  Alps  o'ershades  her  prey. 


j  Broke  only  by  the  melancholy  sound 
Of  drowsy  bells  for  ever  tinkling  found  ; 

|  Faint  wail  of  eagle  melting  into  blue 

!  Beneath  the  cliffs,  and  pine-wood's  steady 

!  sugh  ;\ 

i  The  solitary  heifer's  deepened  low; 

|  Or  rumbling,  heard  remote,  of  falling  snow; 
Save  that,  the  stranger  seen  below,  the  boy 
Shouts  from  the  echoing  hills  with  savage 
joy. 


Hence  shall  we  turn  where,   heard  with 

fear  afar,  (longAar? 

Thunders  through  echoing  pines  the  head- 

Or  rather  stay  to  taste  the  mild  delights 

Of      pensive     Underwalden's  *     pastoral 

heights  ? 

Is   there   who    'mid  these  awful  wilds 
has  seen 
The  native  genii  walk  the  mountain  green? 
Or  heard,  while  other  worlds  their  charms 

reveal, 
Soft  music  from  the  aerial  summit  steal  ? 
While  o'er  the  desert,  answering  every  close, 
Rich  steam  of  sweetest  perfume  comes  and 
goes-  [reigns 

—And  sure  there  is  a  secret  power,  that 
Here,  where  no  trace  of  man  the  spot  pro- 
fanes, [upward,  creep, 
Nought!  but  the  herds  that,  pasturing 
Hung  dim-discovered  from  the  dangerous 

steep, 
Or  summer  hamlet,  flat  and  bare,  on  high 
Suspended,  'mid  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
How  still !  no  irreligious  sound  or  sight 
Rouses  the  soul  from  her  severe  delight. 
An  idle  voice  the  Sabbath  region  fills 
Of  deep  that  calls  to  deep  across  the  hills, 

*  The  people  of  this  Canton  are  supposed  to 
be  of  a  more  melancholy  disposition  than  the 
other  inhabitants  of  the  Alps;  this,  if  true,  may 
proceed  from  their  living  more  secluded. 

+  This  picture  is  from  the  middle  region  of 
the  Alps. 


When  warm  from  myrtle  bays  and  tran- 
quil seas,  [breeze, 
Comes   on,    to  whisper  hope,  the  vernal 
When  hums  the   mountain-bee  in   May's 

glad  ear, 
And  emerald  isles  to  spot  the  heights  appear, 
When  shouts  and  lowing  herds  the  vallev 
fill,  ' 

And  louder  torrents  stun  the  noontide  hill, 
When  fragrant  scents  beneath  the  en- 
chanted tread  [spread, 
Spring  up,  his  choicest  wealth  around  him 
The  pastoral  Swiss  begins  the  cliffs  to  scale, 
To  silence  leaving  the  deserted  vale  ; 
Mounts,    where   the   verdure  leads,   from 

stage  to  stage, 
And  pastures  on  as  in  the  Patriarchs'  age  : 
O'er  lofty  heights  serene  and  still  they  go, 
And  hear  the  rattling  thunder  far  below; 
They  cross  the  chasmy  torrent's    foam-lit 

bed, 
Rocked  on  the  dizzy  larch's  narrow  tread  ; 
Or  steal   beneath  loose   mountains,     half 

deterred, 
That  sigh  and  shudder  to  the  lowing  herd. 
— I  see  him,  up  the  midway  cliff  he  creeps 
To  where  a  scanty  knot  of  verdure  peeps, 
Thence  down  the  steep  a  pile  of  grass  he 

throws, 

The  fodder  of  his  herds  in  winter  snows. 

Far  different  life  to  what  tradition  hoar 

Transmits  of  days  more  blest  in  times  of 

yore  ;  [bland, 

Then  summer  lengthened  out  his  season 

And  with  rock-honey  flowed  the  happy  land. 

Continual   fountains   welling   cheered  the 

waste,  |  deadly  taste, 

And    plants    were    wholesome,      now    of 

Nor  winter  yet  his  frozen  stores  had  piled; 

Usurping  where  the  fairest  herbage  smiled; 

Nor  hunger  forced  the  herds  from  pastures 

bare  [dare. 

For  scanty  food  the   treacherous  cliffs  to 


t  Sugh,  a  Scotch  word  expressive  of  the  sound 
of  the  wind  thruugh  the  trees. 


JUVENILE  rOEMS. 


13 


Then  the  milk-thistle  bade  those  herds  de- 
mand [hand. 
Three  times   a  day  the  pail  and  welcome 
But  human  vices  have  provoked  the  rod 
Of  angry  nature  to  avenge  her  God. 
Thus  does  the  father  to  his  sons  relate, 
On  the  lone  mountain  top,  their  changed 

estate. 
Still,  nature,  ever  just,  to  him  imparts 
Joys  only  given  to  uncorrupted  hearts. 

'Tismorn:  with  gold  the  verdant  moun- 
tain glows,  [rose. 
More  high,  the  snowy  peaks  with  hues  of 
Far-stretched  beneath  the  many-tinted  hills 
A  mighty  waste  of  mist  the  valley  fills, 
A  solemn  sea  !  whose  vales  and  mountains 

round 
Stand  motionless,  to  awful  silence  bound. 
A  gulf  of  gloomy  blue,  that  opens  wide 
And  bottomless,  divides  the  midway  tide. 
Like  leaning  masts  of  stranded  ships  appear 
The  pines  that  near  the  coast  their  summits 
rear ;  [shore 

Of  cabins,  woods,  and   lawns   a  pleasant 
Bounds  calm  and  clear  the  chaos  still  and 
hoar ;  [sound 

Loud  through  that  midway  gulf  ascending, 
Vnnumbered  streams  with  hollow  roar  pro- 
found: [of  birds, 
Mount  through  the  nearer  mist  the  chant 
And  talking  voices,  and  the  low  of  herds, 
The  bark  of  dogs,  the  drowsy  tinkling  bell, 
And  wild-wood  mountain  lutes  of  saddest 

swell. 
Think  not,  suspended  from  the  cliff  on  high, 
He  looks  below  with  undehghted  eye. 
— No  vulgar  joy  is  his,  at  eventide 
Stretched  on  the  scented  mountain's  purple 

side. 
For  as  the  pleasures  of  his  simple  day 
Beyond  his  native  valley  seldom  stray, 
Nought  round  its  darling  precincts  can  he 

find 
But  brings  some  past  enjoyment  tohis  mind, 
While  Hope,  that  ceaseless  leans  on  Plea- 
sure's urn,  [return. 
Binds  her  wild  wreaths,   and  whispers  his 

Once  Man,  entirely  free,  alone  and  wild. 
Was   blest   as    free— for  he  was   nature's 

child. 
He,  all  superior  but  his  God  disdained, 
Walked  none  restraining,  and  by  none  re- 
strained, [taught, 
Confessed  no  law  but  what  his  reason 
Did  all  he  wished,  and  wished  but  what  he 
ought. 


As  man  in  his  primeval  dower  arrayed 
The  image  of  bis  glorious  Sire  displayed, 
Even  so,  by  vestal  nature  guarded,  here 
The  traces  of  primeval  man  appear 
The  native  dignity  no  forms  debase, 
The  eye  sublime,   .nd  surly  lion-grace. 
The  slave  of  none,  of  beasts  alone  the  lord, 
He  marches  with  his  flute,  his  book,  and 

sword  ;  [pared 

Well  taught  by  that  to  feel  his  rights,  pre- 
With  this    "the  blessings   he    enjoys    to 

guard." 

And,  as  his  native  hills  encircle  ground 
For  many  a  wondrous  victory  renowned, 
The  work  of  freedom  daring  to  oppose, 
With  few  in  arms,*  innumerable  foes, 
When  to  those  glorious  fields  his  steps  are 

led,  [dead. 

An  unknown  power  connects  him  with  the 
For  images  of  other  worlds  are  there  ; 
Awful  the  light,  and  holy  is  the  air. 
Uncertain   through   his   fierce  uncultured 

soul  [roll ; 

Like  lighted  tempests  troubled  transports 
To  viewless  realms  his  spirit  towers  amain, 
Beyond  the  senses  and  their  little  reign. 

And  oft,  when  passed  that  solemn  vision 

by,  [high. 

He  holds  with  God  himself  communion 
Wrhere  the  dread  peal  of  swelling  torrents 

fills 
The  sky-roofed  temple  of  the  eternal  hills  ; 
Or,  when  upon  the  mountain's  silent  brow 
Reclined,  he  sees,  above  him  and  below, 
Bright   stars    of    ice   and  azure  fields    of 

snow ; 
While  needle  peaks  of  granite  shooting  bare 
Tremble  in  ever-varying  tints  of  air  : 
— Great  joy,  by  horror  tamed,  dilates  his 

heart,  [impart. 

And  the  near  heavens  their  own  delights 
—When  the  sun  bids  the  gorgeous  scene 

farewell, 
Alps  overlooking  Alps  their  state  up-swell  ; 
Huge  Pikes  of  Darkness  named,  of  Fear 

and  Storms, f 
Lift,  all  serene,  their  still,  illumined  forms, 
In  sea-like  reach  of  prospect  round  him 

spread, 
Tinged  like  an  angel's  smile  all  rosy  red. 


*  Alluding  to  several  battles  which  the  Swiss 
in  very  small  numbers  have  gained  over  their 
oppressors,  the  house  of  Austria. 

t  As  Schreck-Horn,  the  pike  of  terrror  ; 
Wetter-Horn,  the  pike  of  storms.  &c    &C. 


14 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


When  downward  to  his  winter  hut  he 
goes,  [grows ; 

Dear  and  more  dear  the  lessening  circle 
That  hut  which  from  the  hills  his  eye  em- 
ploys 
So  oft,  the  central  point  of  all  his  joys. 
And  as  a  swift,  by  tender  cares  opprest, 
Peeps  often  ere  she  darts  into  her  nest, 
So  to  the  untrodden  floor,  where  round  him 

looks 
His  father,  helpless  as  the  babe  he  rocks, 
Oft  he  descends  to  nurse  the  brother  pair, 
Till  storm  and  driving  ice  blockade  him 

there. 
There,  safely  guarded  by  the  woods  behind, 
He  hears  the  chiding  of  the  baffled  wind, 
Hears  Winter,  calling  all  his  terrors  round, 
Rush  down  the  living  rocks  with  whirlwind 
sound. 

Through  nature's  vale  his  homely  plea- 
sures glide 
Unstained  by  envy,  discontent,  and  pride  ; 
The  bound  of  all  his  vanity,  to  deck, 
With  one  bright  bell,  a  favourite  heifer's 

neck ;  [feast, 

Well-pleased   upon   some    simple   annual 
Remembered  half  the  year  and  hoped  the 

rest, 
If  dairy  produce  from  his  inner  hoard 
Of  thrice  ten  summers  consecrate  the  board. 
— Alas  !  in  every  clime  a  flying  ray 
Is  all  we  have  to  cheer  our  wintry  way. 
But,  ah !  the  unwilling  mind   may  more 

than  trace 
The  general  sorrows  of  the  human  race  : 
The  churlish  gales,  that  unremitting  blow- 
Cold  from  necessity's  continual  snow, 
To  those  the  gentle  groups  of  bliss  deny 
That  on  the  noonday  bank  of  leisure  lie. 
Vet   more  ; — compell'd  by   powers   which 

only  deign 
That  solitary  man  disturb  their  reign, 
Powers  that  support  a  never-ceasing  strife 
With  all  the  tender  charities  of  life, 
The  father,  as  his  sons  of  strength  become 
To  pay  the  filial  debt,  for  food  to  roam, 
From    his   bare   nest   amid  the  storms  of 

heaven  [driven  ; 

Drives,    eagle-like,    those  sons  as  he  was 
His   last    dread  pleasure    watches  to    the 

plain — 
And  never,  eagle-like,  beholds  again  ! 

When  the  poor  heart  has  all  its  joys  re- 
signed, [behind  ? 
Why  does  their  sad  remembrance  cleave 


Lo  !  where  through  flat  Batavia's  willowy 

groves, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Seine  the  exile  roves  ; 
Soft  o'er   the  waters   mournful   measures 

swell,  [cell ;" 

Unlocking   tender    thought's    "memorial 
Past  pleasures  are  transformed  to  mortal 

pains,  [veins, 

While  poison  spreads  along  the  listener's 
Poison   which   not  a   frame  of  steel   can 

brave,  [grave.* 

Bows  his  young  head  with  sorrow  to  the 

Gay  lark  of  hope,  thy  silent  song  resume  ! 
Fair  smiling  lights  the  purpled  hills  illume  ! 
Soft  gales  and  dews  of  life's  delicious  morn, 
And  thou,  lost  fragrance  of  the  heart,  re- 
turn ! 
I  Soon  flies  the  little  joy  to  man  allowed, 
I  And  grief  before  him  travels  like  a  cloud  : 
For  come  diseases  on,  and  penury's  rage, 
i  Labour,  and  care,  and  pain,  and  dismal 

age, 
Till,  hope-deserted,  long  in  vain  his  breath 
Implores  the  dreadfuluntried  sleep  ofdeath. 

'Mid  savage  rocks,  and  seas  of  snow  thai 
shine 
I  Between  interminable  tracts  of  pine, 
|  A   temple  stands ;    which  holds  an  awful 
shrine, 
By  an  uncertain  light  revealed,  that  falls 
j  On  the  mute  image  and  the  troubled  walls  : 
Pale,    dreadful    faces    round    the    shrine 
appear, 
!  Abortive  joy,  and  hope  that  works  in  fear  ; 
!  While  strives  a  secret  power  to  hush  the 
crowd,  [rights  aloud. 

!  Pain's  wild  rebellious  burst  proclaims  her 

Oh  !  give  not  me  that  eye  of  hard  disdain 
]  That  views  undimmed  Ensiedlen'swretched 
fane.t  [ment  meet, 

'Mid  muttering  prayers  all  sounds  of  tor- 
Dire  clap   of  hands,    distracted   chafe  of 
feet ;  [cry, 

While,  loud  and  dull,  ascends  the  weeping 
Surely  in  other  thoughts  contempt  may  die 
i  If  the  sad  grave  of  human  ignorance  bear 
One  flower  of  hope — oh,  pass  and  leave  il 
there. 


*  The  effect  of  the  famous  air  called  in  French 
Ranz  des  Vaches  upon  the  Swiss  troops. 

t  This  shrine  is  resorted  to,  from  a  hope  ol 
relief,  by  multitudes,  from  every  corner  of  the 
Catholic  world,  labouring  under  mental  01 
bodily  afflictions. 


JUVENILE  T0BM8. 


\h 


The  tall  sun,  tiptoe  on  an  Alpine  spire, 
Flings  o'er  the  wilderness  a  stream  of  fire  ; 
Now  let  us  meet  the  pilgrims  ere  the  day 
on  the  remnant  of  their  weary  way  ; 
While  they  are  drawing  toward  the  sacred 
floor  [gnaw  no  more. 

Where   the  charmed  worm  of  pain  shall 
How  gaily  murmur  and  how  sweetly  taste 
The  fountains*  reared  for  them  amid  the 
waste  !  [greet, 

There  some  with  tearful  kiss  each  other 
And  some,  with  reverence,  wash  their  toil- 
worn  feet. 
Yes,  I  will  see  you  when  ye  first  behold 
Those  holy   turrets   tipped    with    evening 
gold,  [prest 

In  that  glad  moment  when  the  hands  are 
In  mute  devotion  on  the  thankful  breast. 

Last  let  us  turn  to  where  Chamouny 
shields  [fields  ; 

With  rocks  and  gloomy  woods  her  fertile 

Five  streams  of  ice  amid  her  cots  descend, 

And  with  wild  flowers  and  blooming  or- 
chards blend.  [feigns 

A  scene  more  fair  than  what  the  Grecian 

Of  purple  lights  and  ever-vernal  plains  ; 

Here  lawns  and  shades  by  breezy  rivulets 
fanned, 

Here  all  the  seasons  revel  hand  in  hand. 

— Red  stream  the  cottage-lights  ;  the  land- 
scape fades, 

Frroneous  wavering'mid  the  twilight  shades. 

Alone  ascends  that  hill  of  matchless  height,! 

That  holds  no  commerce  with  the  summer 
night. 

From  age  to  age,  amid  his  lonely  bounds 

The  crash  of  ruin  fitfully  resounds  ; 

Mysterious  havoc  !  but  serene  his  brow, 

Where  daylight  lingers  'mid  perpetual  snow; 

Glitter  the  stars  above,  and  all  is  black 
below. 

At  such  an  hour  I  heaved  a  pensive  sigh, 
When  roared  the  sullen  Arve  in  anger  by, 
That  not  for  thy  reward,  delicious  vale ! 
Waves  the  ripe  harvest  in  the    autumnal 
gale  ;  [to  pine  ; 

That  thou,  the  slave  of  slaves,  art  doomed 
Hard  lot ! — for  no  Italian  arts  are  thine, 
To  soothe  or  cheer,  to  soften  or  refine. 


*  Rude  fountains  built  and  covered  with 
sheds  for  the  accommodation  of  the  pilgrims,  in 
their  ascent  of  the  mountain. 

t  It  is  only  from  the  higher  part  of  the  valley 
»f  Chamouny  that  Mont  Blanc  is  visible. 


Beloved  freedom  !  were  it  mine  to  stray, 
With  shrill  winds  roaring  round  my  lonely 

way,  [clad  moors, 

O'er  the  bleak  sides  of  Cumbria's  heath- 
Or  where  dank  sea-weed  lashes  Scotland's 

shores,  \  rose, 

To  scent  the  sweets  of  Piedmont's  breathing 
And  orange  gale  that  o'er  Lugano  blows; 
In  the  wide  range  of  many  a  varied  round0 
Fleet    as    my   passage   was,   1   still    have 

found 
That   where   despotic    courts   their   gems 

display, 
The  lilies  of  domestic  joy  decay, 
While  the  remotest  hamlets  blessings  share 
In   thy    dear  presence   known,    and   only 

there  !  (bine  binds, 

The  casement's  shed  more  luscious  wood- 
And  to  the  door  a  neater  pathway  winds  ; 
At  early  morn,  the  careful  housewife,  led 
To  cull  her  dinner  from  its  garden  bed, 
Of  weedless    herbs    a    healthier  prospect 

sees, 
While  hum  with  busier  joy  her  happy  bees  ; 
In  brighter  rows  her  table  wealth  aspires, 
And  laugh  with  merrier  blaze  her  evening 

fires  ; 
Her  infants'  cheeks  with  fresher  roses  glow, 
And    wilder    graces    sport    around    their 

brow; 
By  clearer  taper  lit,  a  cleanlier  board 
Receives    at    supper    hour   her    tempting 

hoard :  [spread, 

The  chamber  hearth  with  fresher  boughs  is 
And  whiter  is  the  hospitable  bed. 

And  oh  !  fair  France  !  though  now  along 

the  shade  [strayed, 

Where  erst  at  will  the  gray-clad  peasant 
Gleam  war's  discordant  vestments  through 

the  trees, 
And  the  red  banner  fluctuates  in  the  breeze; 
Though  martial  songs  have  banished  songs 

of  love, 
And  nightingales  forsake  the  village  grove, 
Scared   by  the  fife  and  rumbling  drum's 

alarms,  [arms ; 

And  the  short  thunder,   and  the  flash  of 
While,  as  night  bids  the  startling  uproar 

die,  [ful  cry  ! 

Sole  sound,  the  sourdt  renews  his  mourn- 
— Yet,    hast    thou     found    that    freedom 

spreads  her  power  [door  : 

Beyond  the   cottage  hearth,    the   cottage 


t  An  insect  so  called  which  emits  a  short, 
melancholy  cry.  heard  at  the  close  of  the  summer 
evenings  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 


16 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


All  nature  smiles,  and  owns  beneath  her 

eyes 
Her  fields  peculiar,  and  peculiar  skies. 
Ves,  as  I  roamed  where  Loiret's  waters  glide 
Through  rustling  aspens  heard  from  side  to 

side, 
When  from  October  clouds  a  milder  light 
Fell,  where  the  blue  flood  rippled  into  white, 
Methought    from  every   cot  the  watchful 

bird 
Crowed  with  ear-piercing  power  till  then 
unheard  ;  [muring  streams, 

Each  clacking  mill,  that  broke  the  mur- 
Rocked  the  charmed  thought  in  more  de- 
lightful dreams  ;  [ing  leaf 
Chasing  those  long,  long  dreams,  the  fall- 
Awoke  a  fainter  pang  of  moral  grief  ; 
The  measured  echo  of  the  distant  flail 
Wound  in  more  welcome  cadence  down 

the  vale ; 
A  more  majestic  tide  the  water  rolled, 
And  glowed  the  sun-gilt  groves  in  richer 
gold.  [raise 

— Though  Liberty  shall  soon,  indignant, 
Red  on  the  hills  his  beacon's  comet  blaze; 
Bid    from    on    hifch    his    lonely    cannon 

sound, 
And  on  ten  thousand  hearths  his  shout  re- 
bound ; 
His  'larum-bell  from  village-tower  to  tower 
Swing  on  the  astonished  ear  its  dull  un- 
dying roar ; 
Yet,  yet  rejoice,  though  pride's  perverted  ire 
Rouse  hell's  own  aid,  and  wrap  thy  hills  in 
fire  !  [birth, 

Lo  !  from  the  innocuous  flames,  a  lovely 
With  its  own  virtues  springs  another  earth: 
Nature,  as  in  her  prime,  her  virgin  reign 
Begins,  and  love  and  truth  compose  her 
train  ;  [gaze, 

WhUe,  with  a  pulseless  hand,  and  steadfast 
Unbreathing  justice  her  still  beam  surveys. 

Oh,  give,  great  God,  to  freedom's  waves 

to  ride 
Sublime  o'er  conquest,  avarice,  and  pride, 
To  sweep  where  pleasure  decks  her  guilty 

bowers,  [bed  towers. 

And  dark  oppression  builds  her  thick  rib- 
— Give  them,  beneath  their  breast  while 

gladness  springs,  [wings  ; 

To  brood  the  nations  o'er  with  Nile-like 
And  grant  that  every  sceptred  child  of  clay, 
Who   cries,    presumptuous,    "Here    their 

tides  shall  stay,"  [shore, 

Swept  in  their  anger  from  the  affrighted 
With  all  his   creatures   sink — to    rise    no 

more .' 


To-night,  my  friend,  within  this  humble 
cot 
Be  the  dead  load  of  mortal  ills  forgot 
In   timely  sleep ;  and   when  at  break  of 

day, 
On  the  tall  peaks  the  glistening  sunbeams 
play,  [new. 

With  lighter  heart  our  course  we  may  re- 
The  first  whose  footsteps  print  the  moun- 
tain dew. 


LINES 


Left  upon  a  seat  in  a  yew-tree,  which  stands 
near  the  Lake  of  Esthwaite,  on  a  desolate 
part  of  the  shore,  commanding  a  beautiful 
prospect. 

Nay,  traveller  !  rest.    This  lonely  yew-tree 

stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling  :  what  if  here 
No   sparkling  rivulet   spread  the  verdant 

herb? 
What  if  these  barren  boughs  the  bee  not 

loves  ?  [waves, 

Yet,  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling 
That  break  against  the  shore,  shall  lull  thy 

mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy. 

Who  he  was 
That  piled  these  stones,    and    with  the 

mossy  sod  [tree 

First  covered  o'er,  and  taught  this  aged 
With  its  dark  arms  to  form  a  circling  bower 
I  well  remember. — He  was  one  who  owned 
No  common  soul.      In  youth  by  science 

nursed, 
And  led  by  nature  into  a  wild  scene 
Of  lofty  hopes,  he  to  the  world  went  forth 
A  favoured  being,  knowing  no  desire 
Which  genius  did  not  hallow, — 'gainst  the 

taint  [hate, 

Of  dissolute  tongues,  and  jealousy,  and 
And  scorn, — against  all  enemies  prepared, 
All  but   neglect.      The  world,    for  so   it 

thought, 
Owed  him  no  service  :  wherefore  he  at  once 
With  indignation  turned  himself  away, 
And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his 

soul  [boughs 

In  solitude.  —  Stranger  !  these  gloomy 
Had  charms  for  him  ;  and  here  he  loved 

to  sit, 
His  only  visitants  a  straggling  sheep, 
The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand-piper; 
And  on  these  barren  rocks,  with  fern  and 

heath, 


JUVENILE  rOEMS. 


17 


And  juniper  and  thistle,  sprinkled  o'er, 
Fixing  his  downcast  eye,  he  many  an  hour 
A  morbid  pleasure  nourished,  tracing  here 
An  emblem  of  his  own  unfruitful  life  : 
And,   lifting  up  his  head,  he  then  would 

gaze 
On  the  more  distant  scene,—  how  lovely  'tis 
Thou  seest, — and   he   would   gaze   till   it 

became 
Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sustain 
The  beauty,  still  more  beauteous  !     Nor, 

that  time, 
When  nature  had  subdued  him  to  herself, 
Would  he  forget  those  beings,  to  whose 

minds, 
Warm  from  the  labours  of  benevolence, 
The  world,  and  human  life,   appeared  a 

scene 
Of  kindred  loveliness,  then  he  would  sigh 
With  mournful  joy,  to  think  that  others  felt 
What  he  must  never  feel :  and  so,  lost  man  ! 
On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed>, 
Till  his  eye  streamed  with  tears.     In  this 

deep  vale 
He  died, — this  seat  his  only  monument. 

If  thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 
Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure, 
Stranger !    henceforth    be    warned ;    and 

know  that  pride, 
Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty, 
Is  littleness  ;  that  he  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used  ;  that   thought 

with  him 
Is  in  its  infancy.     The  man  whose  eye 
Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one, 
The  least  of  nature's  works,  one  who  might 

move  [holds 

The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which  wisdom 
Unlawful,  ever.     O  be  wiser,  thou  ! 
Instructed   that  true  knowledge  leads  to 

love, 
Tme  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought, 
Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  himself, 
In  lowliness  of  heart. 


THE  FEMALE  VAGRANT. 

My  father  was  a  good  and  pious  man, 
An  honest  man  by  honest  parents  bred, 
And  I  believe  that  soon  as  I  began 
To  lisp,  he  made  me  kneel  beside  my  bed, 
And  in  his  hearing  there  my  prayers  I  said  : 
And  afterwards,  by  my  good  father  taught, 


I  read,  and  loved  the  books  in  which  I  read; 
For  books  in  every  neighbouring  house  I 

sought,  [sure  brought. 

And  nothing  to  my  mind  a  sweeter  plea- 
Can  I  forget  what  charms  did  once  adorn 
My  garden,   stored  with  pease,   and  mint, 

and  thyme, 
And  rose,  and  lily,  for  the  Sabbath  morn? 
The   Sabbath   bells,    and   their  delightful 

chime  ; 
The  gambols  and  wild  freaks  at  shearing 

time  ;  [scarce  espied  ; 

My  hen's  rich  nest  through  long  grass 
The    cowslip-gathering     in    Junes    dewy 

prime ;  (side. 

The  swans  that,  when  I  sought  the  water- 
From  far  to  meet  me  came,  spreading  their 

snowy  pride? 

The  staff  I  yet  remember  which  upbore 
The  bending  body  of  my  active  sire  : 
His  seat  beneath  the  honeyed  sycamore 
Where   the  bees   hummed,    and  chair  by 

winter  fire  ; 
When  market  morning  came,  the  neat  attire 
With  which,  though  bent  on  haste,  myself 

I  decked  ;  [ire, 

My  watchful  dog,  whose  starts  of  furious 
When   stranger   passed,    so  often  I  have 

checked  ;  [my  casement  pecked. 

The  redbreast  known  for  years,  which  at 

The    suns    of    twenty    summers    danced 

along, —  [away  : 

Ah  !  little    marked  how   fast  they  rolled 

But,  through  severe  mischance,  and  cruel 

wrong, 
My  father's  substance  fell  into  decay  ; 
We  toiled  and  struggled — hoping  for  a  day 
When  fortune  should  put  on  a  kinder  look  ; 
But  vain  were  wishes — efforts  vain  as  they  ; 
He  from  his  old  hereditary  nook 
Must  part — the  summons  came— our  final 
leave  we  took. 

It  was  indeed  a  miserable  hour  [veyed, 
When  from  the  last  hill-top,  my  sire  sur- 
Peering  above  the  trees,  the  steeple  tower 
That  on   his   marriage   day  sweet   music 

made  !  [be  laid, 

Till  then,  he  hoped  his  bones  might  there 
Close  by  my  mother  in  their  native  bowers. 
Bidding    me  trust  in  God,   he  stood  and 

prayed —  [in  showers, 

I  could  not  pray  : — through  tears  that  fell 
Glimmered  our  dear-loved  home,  alas!  no 

longer  ours. 


18 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


There  was  a  youth  whom  I  had  loved  so 

long, 
That  when  I  loved  him  not  I  cannot  say. 
'Mid  the  green  mountains  many  a  thought- 
less song  [May. 
We   two  had  sung,  like  gladsome  birds  in 
When  we  began  to  tire  of  childish  play, 
We  seemed  still  more  and   more   to  prize 
each  other  ;  [day  ; 
We  talked  of  marriage  and  our  marriage 
And  I  in  truth  did  love  him  like  a  brother, 
For  never  could  I  hope  to  meet  with  such 
another ! 

Two  years  were  passed  since  to  a  distant 

town 
He  had  repaired  to  ply  the  artist's  trade. 
What   tears  of  bitter  grief  till   then  un- 
known !  [layed ! 
What  tender  vows  our  last  sad  kiss   de- 
To  him  we  turned  : — we  had  no  other  aid. 
Like  one  revived  upon  his  neck  1  wept, 
And  her  whom  he  had  loved  in  joy,  he  said, 
He  well  could  love  in  grief:  his  faith  he 
kept,  [slept. 
And  in  a  quiet  home  once  more  my  father 

We  lived  in  peace  and  comfort,  and  were 

blest  [plied. 

With  daily  bread,  by  constant  toil  sup- 
Three  lovely  infants  lay  upon  my  breast  ; 
And  often  viewing   their  sweet  smiles,   I 

sighed,  [died 

And  knew  not  why.  My  happy  father 
When  sad  distress  reduced  the  children's 

meal :  [hide 

Thrice  happy  !  that  for  him  the  grave  did 
The  empty  loom,   cold  hearth,  and  silent 

wheel,  [could  not  heal. 

And  tears  that  flowed  for  ills  which  patience 

'Twas  a  hard  change,  an  evil  time  was  come, 
We  had  no  hope,  and  no  relief  could  gain. 
But  soon,    with   proud  parade,   the  noisy 

drum  [and  pain. 

Beat  round,  to  sweep  the  streets  of  want 
My  husband  s   arms   now  only  served  to 

strain 
Me  and  his  children  hungering  in  hisview  ; 
In  such  despair,  my  orayers  and  tears  were 

vain  : 
To  join  those  miserable  men,  he  flew  ; 
And  now  to  the  sea  coast,   with   numbers 

more,  we  drew. 

There  long  were  we   neglected,    and   we 
bore  [weighed  ; 

Much    sorrow,     ere    the   fleet   its   anchor 


Green  fields  before  us,  and  our  native  shore, 
We  breathed  a  pestilential  air  that  made 
Ravage  for  which  no  knell  was  heard.   We 

prayed  [nor  knew 

For  our  departure  ;  wished  and  wished — 
'Mid  that  long  sickness,    and  those  hopes 

delayed,  [view : 

That  happier  days  we  never  more  must 
The  parting  signal  streamed,  at   last   the 

land  withdrew. 

But  the  calm  summer  season  now  was  past. 
On  as  we  drove,  the  equinoctial  deep 
Ran  mountains  high   before   the  howling 

blast ;  [sweep. 

And  many  perished  in  the  whirlwind's 
We  gazed   with   terror    on    their  gloomy 

sleep,  [ensue, 

Untaught  that  soon  such  anguish  must 
Our  hopes  such  harvest  of  affliction  reap, 
That   we  the   mercy  of  the  waves  should 

rue  :  [voted  crew. 

We  reached  the  western  world  a  poor  de- 

The  pains  and  plagues  that  on  our  heads 

came  down, 
Disease  and  famine,  agony  and  fear, 
In  wood  or  v/ilderness,  in  camp  or  town, 
It  would  thy  brain  unsettle  even  to  hear. 
All  perished — all  in  one  remorseless  year, 
Husband  and   children  !   one  by   one,    by 

sword  [tear 

And  ravenous  plague,   all  perished  ;   every 
Dried  up,  despairing,  desolate,  on  board 
A  British  ship  I  waked,  as  from   a  trance 

restored. 

Peaceful  as  some  immeasurable  plain 
By  the  first  beams  of  dawning  light  im- 
prest, [main, 
In  the  calm  sunshine  slept    the   glittering 
The  very  ocean  hath  its  hour  of  rest- 
I,  too,  forgot  the  heavings  of  my  breast. 
Oh,  me,  how  quiet  sky  and  ocean  were  ! 
As  quiet  all  within  me.     I  was  blest  : 
And  looked,  and  looked  along  the  silent  air, 
Until   it  seemed   to    bring  a  joy  to    my 
despair. 

Ah  !  how  unlike  those  late  terrific  sleeps, 
And  groans,  that  rage  of  racking  famine 

spoke  !  [heaps ! 

The  unburied  dead,  that  lay  in  festering 
The  breathing    pestilence   that   rose  like 

smoke  !  [broke  ! 

The  shriek  that  from  the  distant  battle 
The  mine's  dire  earthquake,  and  the  pallid 

host 


JUVENILE  rOEMS. 


19 


Driven  by  the  bomb's  incessant  thunder- 
stroke 

To  loathsome  vaults,  where  heart-sick 
anguish  tossed,  [lost ! 

Hope   died,  and  fear  itself  in  agony  vas 

Some  mighty  gulf  of  separation  past, 

I  seemed  transported  to  another  world  :— 

A  thought    resigned  with  pain,  when  from 

the  ntast 
The  impatient  mariner  the  sail    unfurled, 
And  whistling,  called  the  wind  that  hardly 

curled  [of  home 

The  silent  sea.      From  the  sweet  thoughts 
And  from  all  hope  I  was  for  ever  hurled. 
For  me — farthest  from  earthly  port  to  roam 
Was  best,  could  I  but  shun  the  spot  where 

man  might  come. 

And  oft  I  thought  (my  fancy  was  so  strong) 
That  I,  at  last,  a  resting-place  had  found  ; 
"  Here  will  I   dwell,  "said  I,    "my   whole 

life  long, 
Roaming  the  illimitable  waters  round  : 
Here  will  I  live,  of  every  friend  disowned, 
And  end  my  days  upon  the  ocean  flood.' ' — 
To  break  my  dream  the  vessel  reached   its 

bound  :  [stood, 

And  homeless  near  a  thousand  homes  I 
And   near  a  thousand   tables  pined,    and 

wanted  food. 

By  grief  enfeebled,  was  I  turned  adrift, 
Helpless  as  sailor  cast  on  desert  rock  ; 
Nor  morsel  to  my  mouth  that  day  did  lift, 
Nor  dared  my  hand  at  any  door  to  knock. 
I  lay  where,  with  his  drowsy  mates,  the  cock 
From  the  cross  timberofan  out-house  hung  : 
Dismally  tolled  that  night  the  city  clock  ! 
At   mom  my  sick  heart   hunger  scarcely 
stung,  [frame  my  tongue. 

Nor   to   the  beggar's   language   could    I 

So  passed  another  day,  and  so  the  third  : 
Then  did  I  try  in  vain  the  crowd's  resort. 
— In    deep    despair,    by   frightful   wishes 

stirred, 
Near  the  sea-side  I  reached  a  ruined  fort  ; 
There  pains,   which  nature  could  no  more 

support,  [fall, 

With  blindness  linked,   did  on  my  vitals 
And  after  many  interruption;  short 
Of  hideous  sense,    I  sank,   nor  step  could 

crawl  ;  [recall. 

Unsought  for  was  the  help  that  did  my  life 

Borne  to  an  hospital,  I  lay  with  brain 
Drowsy  and  weak,  and  shattered  memory  ; 


1  heard  my  neighbours  in  their  beds,  com- 
plain 

Of  many  things  which  never  tr-jubled  me  ; 

Of  feet  still  bustling  round  with  busy  glee  ; 

Of  looks  where  common  kindness  had  no 
part  : 

Of  service  done  with   careless  cruelty, 

Fretting  the  fever  round  the  languid  heart ; 

And  groans,  which,  as  they  said,  might 
make  a  dead  man  start. 

These  things  just  served  to   stir  the  torpid 

sense, 
Nor  pain  nor  pity  in  my  bosom  raised. 
With  strength  did  memory   return  ;    and, 

thence 
Dismissed,  again  on  open  day  I  gazed, 
At  houses,  men,  and  common  light  amazed. 
The  lanes  I  sought,  and  as  the  sun  retired, 
Came    where  beneath   the  trees  a  faggot 
blazed  ;  [quired, 

The    travellers  saw  me  weep,  my  fate  in- 
And  gave  me  food, — and  rest,  more  wel- 
i         come,  more  desired. 
I 

I  They  with  their  panniered  asses  semblance 
made 
Of  potters  wandering  on  from  door  to  door  : 
But  life  of  happier  sort  to  me  portrayed, 
And  other  joys  my  fancy  to  allure  ; 
The    bag-pipe   dinning  on    the  midnight 

moor, 
In  barn  uplighted,  and  companions  boon 
Well  met  from  far  with  revelry  secure, 
Among    the  forest   glades,    when    jocund 
June  [genial  moon. 

Rolled  fast  along  the  sky   his    warm  and 

But  ill  they  suited  me — those  journeys  dark 
O'er  moor  and  mountain,  midnight   theft 

to  hatch  !  [bark, 

To  charm    the  surly   house-dog's    faithful 
Or  hang  on  tip-toe  at  the  lifted  latch. 
The   gloomy    lantern,  and   the  dim    blue 

match,  [shrill, 

The  black    disguise,  the  warning  whistle 
And  ear  still  busy  on  its  nightly  watch, 
Were  not  for  me,  brought  up  in  nothing  ill ; 
Besides,   on    griefs   so  fresh  my   thoughts 

were  brooding  still. 

What  could  I  do,  unaided  and  unblest  ? 
My  father  !  gone  was  every  friend  of  thine: 
And  kindred  of    dead  husband  are  at  best 
Small   help  ;  and    after  marriage  such  as 

mine, 
With  little  kindness  would  tome  incline, 


20 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE 


111  was  I  then  for  toil  or  service  fit : 

With  tears  whose  course  no  effort  could 

confine, 
By  the  roadside  forgetful  would  I  sit 
Whole    hours,    my   idle  arms  in    moping 

sorrow  knit. 

1  led  a  wandering  life  among  the  fields  : 
Contentedly,  yet  sometimes  self-accused, 
1  lived  upon  what  casual  bounty  yields, 
Now  coldly  given,  now  utterly  refused. 
The    ground    I   for   my   bed    have   often 

used  : 
But,  what  afflicts  my  peace   with  keenest 

ruth 
Is,  that  I  have  my  inner  self  abused, 


Foregone  the  home  delight  of  constant  truth 
And  clear   and   open    soul,    so    prized  in 
fearless  youth. 

Three  years  thus  wandering,  often  have   I 

viewed, 
In  tears,  the  sun  towards  that  country  tend 
Where  my  poor  heart  lost  all  its  fortitude  : 
And  now  across  this  moor  my  steps  I  bend 
— Oh,    tell    me  whither — for    no    earthly 

friend  [away. 

Have  I. — She  ceased,  and  weeping  turned 
As  if  because  her  tale  was  at  an  end 
She  wept ;  because  she  had  no  more  to  say 
Of  that  perpetual  weight  which  on  her  spiri 

lay. 


\atm$  gcffrrhtg  to  %  ]§maa  of  (ftjrilbljoofr. 


My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  : 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

Stay  near  me — do  not  take  thy  flight ! 

A  little  longer  stay  in  sight ! 

Much  converse  do  I  find  in  thee, 

Historian  of  my  infancy  ! 

Float  near  me  ;  do  not  yet  depart ! 

Dead  times  revive  in  thee  : 

Thou  bring'st,  gay  creature  as  thou  art ! 

A  solemr  image  to  my  heart, 

My  father's  family  ! 

Oh  !  pleasant,  pleasant  were  the  days, 
The  time,  when,  in  our  childish  plays, 
My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  chased  the  butterfly  ! 
A  very  hunter  did  I  rush 
Upon  the  prey  . — with  leaps  and  springs 
1  followed  on  from  brake  to  bush  ; 
But  she,  God  love  her  !  feared  to  brush 
The  dust  from  off  its  wings. 


FORESIGHT, 

THAT  is  work  of  waste  and  ruin — 
Do  as  Charles  and  I  are  doing  ! 
Strawberry-blossoms,  one  and  all, 
We  must  spare  them— here  are  many  : 
Look  at  it — the  flower  is  small, 
Small  and  low,  though  fair  as  any  : 
Do  not  touch  it !  summers  two 
I  am  older,  Anne,  than  you. 

Pull  the  primrose,  sister  Anne  ! 

Pull  as  many  as  you  can. 

— Here  are  daisies,  take  your  fill  ; 

Pansies,  and  the  cuckow  flower  : 

Of  the  lofty  daffodil 

Make  your  bed,  and  make  your  bower 

Fill  your  lap,  and  fill  your  bosom  ; 

Only  spare  the  strawberry-blossom  ! 

Primroses,  the  spring  may  love  them  : 
Summer  knows  but  little  of  them  : 
Violets,  a  barren  kind, 
Withered  on  the  ground  must  lie  ; 
Daisies  leave  no  fruit  behind 
When  the  pretty  flowerets  die  ; 
Pluck  them,  and  another  year 
As  many  will  be  blowing  here. 

God  has  given  a  kindlier  power 
To  the  favoured  strawberry-flower. 
When  the  months  of  spring  are  fled 
Hither  let  us  bend  our  walk  ; 


J'ETilOD  UF  VH1LDH00D. 


'Z\ 


Lurking  berries,  ripe  and  red, 
Then  will  hang  on  every  stalk, 
Each  within  its  leafy  bower  ; 
And  for  that  promise  spare  the  flower  ! 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  A  CHILD 
THREE  YEARS  OLD. 

Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild  ; 
And  innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes  ; 
And  feats  of  cunning  ;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock-chastisement  and  partnershipinplay. 
And,  as  a  faggot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity,         [round 
Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient  ;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society,  who  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs. 
Light  are  her  sallies  as  the  tripping  fawn's 
Forth-startled  from  the  fern  where  she  lay 

couched ; 
Unthought  of,  unexpected,  as  the  stir 
Of  the   soft  breeze   ruffling  the   meadow 

flowers  ; 
Or  from  before  it  chasing  wantonly 
The  many-coloured  images  impressed 
Upon  the  bosom  of  a  placid  lake 


Round  as  a  pillow  and  whiter  than  milk, 
And  softer  than  if  it  were  covered  with  silk. 
Sometimes  he'll  hide  in  the  cave  of  a  rock, 
Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard  cock  ; 
— Yet  seek  him,— and  what  shall  you  find 

in  the  place  ? 
Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space  ; 
Save,  in  a  corner  a  heap  of  dry  leaves, 
That  he's  left,   for  a  bed,  to  beggars  or 

thieves  ! 

As  soon  as  'tis  daylight,  to-morrow,  with  me 
You  shall  go  to  the  orchard,  and  then  you 

will  see  [rout, 

That  he  has  been  there,  and  made  a  great 
And   cracked    the   branches,    and  strewn 

them  abouf  ;  [upright  twig 

Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that  one 
That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud  and  big 
All  last  summer,  as  well  you  know, 
Studded  with  apples,  a  beautiful  show  ! 

Hark  !  over  the  roof  he  makes  a  pause, 
And  growls  as  if  he  would  fix  his  claws 
Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a  huge  rattle 
Drive  them  down  like  men  in  a  battle  ; 
— But  let  him  range  round  ;  he  does  us  no 

harm, 
We  build  up  the  fire,  we're  snug  and  warm  ; 
Untouched  by  his  breath  see  the  candle- 
shines  bright, 


ADDRESS  TO  A  CHILD  DURING 

A  BOISTEROUS  WINTER 

EVENING. 

BY  A  FEMALE  FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

What  way  does  the  wind  come?   What 

way  does  he  go  ? 
He  rides  over  the  water  and  over  the  snow, 
Through  wood,  and  through  vale ;  and  o'er 

rocky  height, 
Which  the  goat  cannot  climb    '-akes  his 

sounding  flight  ; 
He  tosses  about  in  every  bare  tree, 
As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see  , 
But  how  he  will  come  and  whither  he  goes 
There's  never  a  scholar  in  England  knows. 

He  will  suddenly  stop  in  a  cunning  nook 
And   ring   a  sharp    'larum  ! — but  if  you 
should  look,  [snow 

There's   nothing  to  see  but  a  cushion  of 


j  And  burns  with  a  clear  and  steady  light  ; 
|  Books  have   we    to  read, — but   that  half- 
stifled  knell— 
|  Alas !  'tis  thesound  of  the  eight  o'clock  bell 
— Come  now,  we'll  to  bed  !  and  when  we 
are  there  [we  care  ? 

He  may  work  his  own  will  and  what  shall 
He  may  knock  at  the  door, — we  11  not  let 
him  in  ;  [his  din  ; 

May  drive  at  the  windows, — we'll  laugh  at 
I  Let  him  seek  his  own  home  wherever  it  be  ; 
|  Here's   a  cozie  warm  house   for  Edward 
and  me. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN. 

BY   THE   SAME. 

A  month,  sweet  little  ones,  is  passed 
Since  your  dear  mother  went  away, — 
And  she  to-morrow  will  return  ; 
To-morrow  is  the  happy  day. 

Oh,  blessed  tidings  !  thought  of  joy  ! 
The  eldest  heard  with  steady  glee  ; 
Silent  he  stood  ;  then  laughed  amain. 
And  shouted,  "  Mother,  come  to  me  !" 


22 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE 


Louder  and  louder  did  he  shout, 
With  witless  hope  to  bring  her  near; 
"  Nay,  patience!  patience,  little  boy! 
Your  tender  mother  cannot  hear." 

[  told  of  hills,  and  far-off  towns, 
And  long,  long  vales  to  travel  through; — 
He  listens,  puzzled,  sore  perplexed, 
But  he  submits;  what  can  he  do? 

No  strife  disturbs  his  sister's  breast: 
She  wars  not  with  the  mystery 
Of  time  and  distance,  night  and  day, 
The  bonds  of  our  humanity. 

Her  joy  is  like  an  instinct,  joy 
Of  kitten,  bird,  or  summer  fly; 
She  dances,  runs  without  an  aim, 
She  chatters  in  her  ecstasy. 

Her  brother  now  takes  up  the  note, 
And  echoes  back  his  sister's  glee; 
They  hug  the  infant  in  my  arms, 
As  if"  to  force  his  sympathy. 

Then,  settling  into  fond  discourse, 
We  rested  in  the  garden  bower; 
While  sweetly  shone  the  evening  sun 
In  his  departing  hour. 

We  told  o'er  all  that  we  had  done, — 
Our  rambles  by  the  swift  brook's  side 
Far  as  the  willow-skirted  pool, 
Where  two  fair  swans  together  glide. 

We  talked  of  change,  of  winter  gone, 
Of  green  leaves  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Of  birds  that  build  their  nests  and  sing, 
And  "all  since  mother  went  away." 

To  her  these  tales  they  will  repeat, 
To  her  our  new-born  tribes  will  show, 
The  goslings  green,  the  ass's  colt, 
The  lambs  that  in  the  meadow  go. 

— But,  see,  the  evening  star  comes  forth ! 
To  bed  the  children  must  depart; 
A  moment's  heaviness  they  feel, 
A  sadness  at  the  heart: 

'Tis  gone — and  in  a  merry  fit 

They  run  up  stairs  in  gamesome  race; 

I,  too,  infected  by  their  mood, 

I  could  have  joined  the  wanton  chase. 

Five  minutes  past— and,  oh,  the  change! 
Asleep  upon  their  beds  they  lie; 
Their  busy  limbs  in  perfect  rest, 
And  closed  the  sparkling  eye. 


LUCY  GRAY  ;  OR,  SOLITUDE. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor — 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  th~  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go; 
And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  father,  will  I  gladly  do: 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon." 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot  band; 
He  plied  his  work; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe: 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time: 
She  wandered  up  and  down; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb; 
But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept,  and  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet:" 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  Drint  of  Lucy's  feet. 


PEltlOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


23 


Then  downward  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  track  the  footmarks  small; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone- wall; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed: 
The  marks  were  still  the  same; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank; 
And  further  there  were  none! 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


ALICE  FELL  ;  or,  POVERTY. 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career, 
For    threatening    clouds    the    moon    had 

drowned  ; 
When  suddenly  I  seemed  to  hear 
A  moan,  a  lamentable  sound. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways, 
I  heard  the  sound — and  more  and  more  : 
It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it  as  before. 

At  length  I  to  the  boy  called  out  ; 
He  stopped  his  horses  at  the  word  ; 
But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout, 
Nor  aught  else  like  it,  could  be  heard. 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampered  through  the  rain  ; 
And  soon  I  heard  upon  the  blast 
The  voice,  and  bade  him  halt  again. 

Said  I,  alighting  on  the  ground, 
"  What  can  it  be,  this  piteous  moan  ?" 
And  there  a  little  girl  I  found, 
Sitting  behind  the  chaise,  alone. 

"  My  cloak  !"  the  word  was  last  and  fust, 
And  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept, 
As  if  her  very  heart  would  burst  ; 
And  down  from  oft  her  seat  she  leapt. 


"What  ails  you,    child?''     She  sobbed, 

"  Look  here!'' 
I  saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, 
A  weather-beaten  rag  as  e'er 
From  any  garden  scarecrow  dangled. 

'Twas  twisted  between  nave  and  spoke  ; 
Her  help  she  lent,  and  with  good  heed 
Together  we  released  the  cloak  ; 
A  wretched,  wretched  rag  indeed  ! 

"  And  whither  are  you  going,  child, 
To-night  along  these  lonesome  ways  ?" 
"  To  Durham,"  answered  she,  half  wild — 
"  Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise." 

She  sate  like  one  past  all  relief  ; 
Sob  after  sob  she  forth  did  send 
In  wretchedness,  as  if  her  grief 
Could  never,  never  have  an  end. 

"  My  child,  in  Durham  do  you  dwell  ?" 
She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 
And  said,    "  My  name  is  Alice  Fell  ; 
I'm  fatherless  and  motherless. 

And  I  to  Durham,  sir,  belong." 
And  then,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 
Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong  ; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak. 

The  chaise  drove  on  ;  our  journey's  end 
Was  nigh  ;  and  sitting  by  my  side, 
As  if  she  had  lost  her  only  friend, 
She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

Up  to  the  tavern  door  we  post  ; 
Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I  told  ; 
And  I  gave  money  to  the  host. 
To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

"  And  let  it  be  of  duffil  gray, 
As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell !" 
Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day, 
The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell  ! 


/we  are  seven. 


-A  simple  child, 


That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl: 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

E 


G4 


rOEMS  II E  FEE  RING  TO  THE 


She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad: 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 
Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 
How  many  may  you  be  ?" 
"  How  many?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?     I  pray  you  tell.' 
She  answered,  "Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

'■  'fwo  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
Aly  sister  and  my  brother; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

' '  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven! — I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

' '  Their    graves    are  green,   they  may  be 

seen," 
The  little  maid  replied, 
*  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's 

door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem; 
And  thereupon  the  ground  I  sit — 
I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane; 
In  bed  she  moaning  lav, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain; 
And  then  she  went  away. 


"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid; 
And  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 

snow, 
And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 
And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven?" 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 
"  O  master!  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead;  those  two  are  dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !" 
'Twas  throwing  words  away:  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !" 


ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS. 

SHOWING  HOW   THE   PRACTICE  OF  LYING 

MAY    BE   TAUGHT. 

I  have  a  boy  of  five  years  old; 
His  face  is  fair  and  fresh  to  see; 
His  limbs  are  cast  in  beauty's  mould, 
And  dearly  he  loves  me. 

One  morn  we  strolled  on  our  dry  walk, 
Our  quiet  home  all  full  in  view, 
And  held  such  intermitted  talk 
As  we  are  wont  to  do. 

My  thoughts  on  former  pleasures  ran, 
I  thought  of  Kilve's  delightful  shore, 
Our  pleasant  home  when  spring  began, 
A  long,  long  year  before. 

A  day  it  was  when  I  could  bear 
Some  fond  regrets  to  entertain; 
With  so  much  happiness  to  spare, 
I  could  not  feel  a  pain. 

The  green  earth  echoed  to  the  feet 
Of  lambs  that  bounded  through  the  glade 
From  shade  to  sunshine,  and  as  fleet 
From  sunshine  back  to  shade. 

Birds  warbled  round  me — every  trace 
Of  inward  sadness  had  its  charm; 
"  Kilve, "  said  I,  "  was  a  favourite  pl^ce. 
And  so  is  Liswyn  farm.  " 


rnnTOii  of  rmT.mrnoD. 


25 


My  boy  was  by  my  side,  so  slim 
And  graceful  in  his  rustic  dress  ! 
And,  as  we  talked,  I  questioned  him, 
In  very  idleness. 

"  Now  tell  me,  had  you  rather  be," 

I  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm, 

"  On  Kilve's  smooth  shore,  by  the  green 

Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm?"  [sea, 

In  careless  mood  he  looked  at  me, 
While  still  I  held  him  by  the  arm, 
And  said,  "At  Kilve  I'd  rather  be 
Than  here  at  Liswyn  farm." 

"  Now,  little  Edward,  say  why  so; 
My  little  Edward,  tell  me  why." 
"  I  cannot  tell,  I  do  not  know." 
"  Why,  this  is  strange,"  said  I. 

"For   here   are    woods   and   green  -  hills 

warm : 
There  surely  must  some  reason  be 
Why   you  would    change   sweet    Liswyn 
For  Kilve  by  the  green  sea."  [farm 

At  this  my  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
He  blushed  with  shame,  nor  made  reply; 
And  five  times  to  the  child  I  said, 
"Why,  Edward,  tell  me  why?" 

His  head  he  raised — there  was  in  sight, 
It  caught  his  eye,  he  saw  it  plain — 
Upon  the  housetop,  glittering  bright, 
A  broad  and  gilded  vane. 

Then  did  the  boy  his  tongue  unlock; 
And  thus  to  me  he  made  reply, 
"At  Kilve  there  was  no  weathercock, 
And  that's  the  reason  why." 

O  dearest,  dearest  boy!  my  heart 
For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 
Could  I  but  teach  the  hundredth  part 
Of  what  from  thee  I  learn. 


RURAL  ARCHITECTURE. 

There's  George  Fisher,  Charles  Fleming, 
and  Reginald  Shore, 

Three  rosy-cheeked  school-boys,  the  high- 
est not  more 

Than  the  height  of  a  counsellor's  bag, 

To  the  top  of  Great  How*  w:ere  once 
tempted  to  climb; 


*  Great  How  is  a  single  and  conspicuous  hill, 
which  rises  towards  the  foot  of  Thirlmere.  on 


And  there  they  built  up,  without  mortar 

or  lime, 
A  man  on  the  peak  of  the  crag. 

They  built  him  of  stones  gathered  up  as 

they  lay; 
They  built  him  and  christened  him  all  in 

one  day, 
An  urchin  both  vigorous  and  hale; 
And   so   without  scruple  they  called  him 

Ralph  Jones.  [his  bones: 

Now  Ralph  is  renowned  for   the  length  of 
The  Magog  of  Legberthwaite  dale. 

Just  half  a  week  after,  the  wind  sallied 
forth,  [north 

And,   in  anger  or  merriment,   out  of  the 
Coming  on  with  a  terrible  pother, 
From  the  peak  of  the  crag  blew  the  giant 
away.  [next  day 

And  what  did  these  school-boys? — The  very 
They  went  and  they  built  up  another. 

Some  little  I've  seen  of  blind  boisterous 
works  [Turks, 

By  Christian  disturbers  more  savage  than 

Spirits  busy  to  do  and  undo: 

At  remembrance  whereof  my  blood  some- 
times will  flag;  [crag, 

Then,  light-hearted  boys,  to  the  top  of  the 

And  I'll  build  up  a  giant  with  you. 


THE  PET-LAMB:  A  PASTORAL. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began 
to  blink;  [ture,  drink  !" 

I  heard  a  voice;  it  said,  "Drink,  pretty  crea- 

And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I 
espied  [at  its  side. 

A  snow-white  mountain  lamb  with  a  maiden 

No  other  sheep  was  near,  the  lamb  was  all 
alone,  [stone; 

And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a 

With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little 
maiden  kneel,  [evening  meal. 

While  to  that  mountain  lamb  she  gave  its 

The  lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  thus  his 

supper  took, 
Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears;  and 

his  tail  with  pleasure  shook. 


the  western  side  of  the  beautiful  dale  of  Legber- 
thwaite, along  the  high  road  between  KeswicK 
and  Ambleside. 


26 


rOEMH  REFERRING  TO  THE 


"  Drink,  pretty  creature,  drink,"  she  said 

in  such  a  tone  [own. 

That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my 

'Tvvas  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  child  of 
beauty  rare  !  [lovely  pair. 

I  watched  them  with  delight,  they  were  a 

Now  with  her  empty  can  the  maiden  turned 
away;  [did  she  stay. 

But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  footsteps 

Towards  the  lamb  she  looked;  and  from 
that  shady  place  [her  face: 

I  unobserved  could  see   the   workings   of 

If  nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured 
numbers  bring, 

Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  lamb  that  little 
maid  might  sing: 

"  What  ails  thee,  young  one  ?  what  ?  Why 
pull  so  at  thy  cord?  [and  board? 

Ts  it  not  well  with  thee?  well  both  for  bed 

Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass 
can  be;  [aileth  thee? 

Rest,  little  young  one,  rest;  what  is't  that 

"  What  is  it  thou  would 'st  seek?  What  is 
wanting  to  thy  heart  ? 

Thy  limbs,  are  they  not  strong  ?  And  beau- 
tiful thou  art: 

This  grass  is  tender  grass;  these  flowers 
they  have  no  peers;  [thy  ears! 

And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in 

' '  If  the  sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch 
thy  woollen  chain,  [canst gain; 

This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert  thou 

For  rain  and  mountain  storms?  the  like 
thou  need'st  not  fear — 

The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely 
can  come  here. 

"  Rest,  little  young  one,  rest;  thou  hast 
forgot  the  day  [far  away, 

A'hen  my  father  found  thee  first  in  places 

Man:  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou 
wert  owned  by  none, 

And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  evermore 
was  gone. 

"  He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity 

brought  thee  home. 
A    blessed    day    for    thee!    then   whither 

wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
A  faithful  nurse  thou  hast  ;  the  dam  that 

did  thee  yean  [have  been. 


"Thou  know'st  that  twice  a  day  I  have 

brought  thee  in  this  can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as 

ever  ran;  [wet  with  dew, 

And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is 
I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk,  warm  milk 

it  is  and  new. 

"  Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout 
as  they  are  now,  [in  the  plough; 

Then  I'll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a  pony 

My  playmate  thou  shalt  be;  and  when  the 
wind  is  cold  [be  thy  fold. 

Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall 

"  It  will  not,  will  not  rest! — poor  creature, 
can  it  be  [ing  so  in  thee? 

That  'tis  thy  mother's  heart  which  is  work- 
Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee 
are  dear,  [neither  see  nor  hear. 

And  dreams  of   things  which  thou  canst 

"Alas,   the   mountain   tops  that  look   so 

green  and  fair! 
I've  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness 

that  come  there;  [and  all  play, 

The  little   brooks   that  seem  all   pastime 
When  they  are  angry,   roar  like  lions  for 

their  prey. 

' '  Here  thou  need'st  not  dread  the  raven  in 
the  sky;  [is  hard  by. 

Night  and  day  thou  art  safe, — our  cottage 

Why  bleat  so  after  me  ?  Why  pull  so  at 
thy  chain?  [thee  again!" 

Sleep — and  at  break  of  day  I  will  come  to 

As  homeward    through    the    lane  I  went 

with  lazy  feet, 
This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat; 
And    it   seemed,  as   I  retraced  the  ballad 

line  by  line,  [of  it  was  mine. 

That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the 
song;  [damsel  must  belong, 

"Nay,"  said   I,    "more  than  half  to  the 

For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and  she 
spake  with  such  a  tone,         [my  own." 

That    I    almost   received   her    heart   into 


THE    IDLE  SHEPHERD-BOYS  ;    OR, 
DUNGEON-GHYLL-FORCE.* 

A    PASTORAL. 

The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy; 
Among  the  hills  the  echoes  play 


Upon  the  mountain  tops  no  kinder  could        *  Ghyll,   in  the  dialect  of   Cumberland  and 


TEJiJOT)  OF  GTTTLDTWOT). 


27 


A  never,  never-ending  song, 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  magpie  chatters  with  delight; 

The  mountain  raven's  youngling  brood 

Have  left  the  mother  and  the  nest; 

And  they  go  rambling  east  and  west 

In  search  of  their  own  food; 

Or  through  the  glittering  vapours  dart 

In  very  wantonness  of  heart. 

Beneath  a  rock  upon  the  grass, 
Two  boys  are  sitting  in  the  sun; 
Boys  that  have  had  no  work  to  do, 
Or  work  that  now  is  done. 
On  pipes  of  sycamore  they  play 
The  fragment's  of  a  Christmas  hymn; 
Or  with  that  plant  which  in  our  dale 
We  call  stag-horn,  or  fox's  tail, 
Their  rusty  hats  they  trim; 
And  thus,  as  happy  as  the  day, 
Those  shepherds  wear  the  time  away. 

Along  the  river's  stony  marge 

The  sand-lark  chants  a  joyous  song; 

The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood, 

And  carols  loud  and  strong. 

A  thousand  lambs  are  on  the  rocks, 

All  newly  born!  both  earth  and  sky 

Keep  jubilee;  and  more  than  all, 

Those  boys  with  their  green  coronal ; 

They  never  hear  the  cry, 

That  plaintive  cry!  which  up  the  hill 

Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said  Walter,  leaping  from  the  ground, 
"  Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  yew 
We'll  for  our  whistles  run  a  race." 

Awav  the  shepherds  flew. 

They  leapt— they  ran— and  when  they  came 
Right  opposite  to  Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing  that  he  should  lose  the  prize, 
"  Stop!"  to  his  comrade  Walter  cries- 
James  stopped  with  no  good  will: 
Said  Walter  then,  "  Your  task  is  here, 
'Twill  baffle  you  for  half  a  year. 

"  Cross,  if  you  dare,  where  I  shall  cross- 
Come  on,  and  in  my  footsteps  tread!" 
The  other  took  him  at  his  word, 
And  followed  as  he  led. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  may  see 
If  ever  you  to  Langdale  go; 


Westmoreland,  is  a  short,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
a  steep  narrow  valley,  with  a  stream  running 
through  it.  Force  is  the  word  universally  em- 
pi.  lyed  in  these  dialects  for  waterfall. 


Into  a  chasm  a  mighty  block 

Hath     fallen,    and     made    a    bridge    of 

rock : 
The  gulf  is  deep  below; 
And  in  a  basin  black  and  small 
Receives  a  lofty  waterfall. 

With  staff  in  hand  across  the  cleft 

The  challenger  pursued  his  march; 

And  now,  all  eyes  and  feet,  hath  gained 

The  middle  of  the  arch. 

When  list!  he  hears  a  piteous  moan  — 

Again! — his  heart  within  him  dies — 

His  pulse  is  stopped,  his  breath  is  lost, 

He  totters,  pallid  as  a  ghost, 

And,  looking  down,  espies 

A  lamb,  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 

Within  that  black  and  frightful  rent. 

The  lamb  had  slipped  into  the  stream, 

And  safe  without  a  bruise  or  wound 

The  cataract  had  borne  him  down 

Into  the  gulf  profound. 

His  dam  had  seen  him  when  he  fell, 

She  saw  him  down  the  torrent  borne: 

And,  while  with  all  a  mother's  love 

She  from  the  lofty  rocks  above 

Sent  forth  a  cry  forlorn, 

The    lamb,    still  swimming    round    and 

round, 
Made  answer  to  that  plaintive  sound. 

When  he  had  learnt  what  thing  it  was, 
That  sent  this  rueful  cry  ;  I  ween, 
The  boy  recovered  heart,  and  told 
The  sight  which  he  had  seen. 
Both  gladly  now  deferred  their  task  ; 
j  Nor  was  there  wanting  other  aid— 
I  A  poet,  one  who' loves  the  brooks 
!  Far  better  than  the  sages'  books, 
!  By  chance  had  hither  strayed  ; 
!  And  there  the  helpless  lamb  he  found 
By  those  huge  rocks  encompassed  round. 

He  drew  it  gently  from  the  pool, 

And  brought  it  forth  into  the  light  : 
!  The  shepherds  met  him  with  his  charge, 
I  An  unexpected  sight ! 
hlnto  their  arms  the  lamb  they  took, 

Said   they,      "He's    neither   maimed  nor 
scarred." 

Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied, 
1  And  placed  him  at  his  mother's  side  ; 
I  And  gently  did  the  bard 
|  Those  idle  shepherd-boys  upbraid, 
\nd  bade  them  better  mind  their  trade. 


VOEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE 


TO  H.  C.     SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

O   thou  !    whose   fancies   from   afar    are 
brought  ;  [apparel, 

Who    of   thy   words   dost   make  a   mock 
And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 
The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born 

carol ; 
Thou  faery  voyager  !  that  dost  float, 
In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 
May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream  ; 
Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky 
Where   earth   and    heaven    do  make  one 
imagery  ! 

0  blessed  vision  !  happy  child  ! 
That  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 
For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I  thought  of  times  when  pain  might  be 
thy  guest, 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ! 
And  grief,  uneasy  lover  !  never  rest 
But  when  she  sate  within  the  touch  of  thee, 
Oh  !  too  industrious  folly  ! 
Oh  !  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 
Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 
Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 
Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 
A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ?  [forth, 

Thou  art  a  dewdrop,  which  the  morn  brings 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks  ; 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth  ' 

A  gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives, 

And  no  forewarning  gives-; 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrong',  without  a  strife 

^lips  in  a  moment  out  of  life. 


INFLUENCE  OF   NATURAL 
OBJEC  rs 
:n  calling  fcrth  and   strengthen- 
ing   THE    IMAGINATION    IN    BOYHOOD 
AND   EARLY    YOUTH. 

This  extract  is  reprinted  from  "The  Friend."] 
Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  soul,  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought  ! 
And  giv'st  (o  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  !  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star  light,  thus  from  my  firs'; 'dawn 
Of  childhood  did'st  thou  intertwine  forme 


The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of 

man, — 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 
With  life  and  nature  ;  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear,— until  we  recognise 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  tome 
With  stinted  kindness.   In  November  days, 
When  vapours  rolling  down   the  valleys 
made  [woods 

A   lonely  scene   more  lonesome  ;  among 
At  noon  ;   and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer 
n'ghts,  [iake, 

When,    by  the   margin  of  the  trembling 
Beneath    the   gloomy   hills,    I    homeward 

went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine  : 
'Twas  mine  among  the  fields  both  day  and 

night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long  ; 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage  windows  through  the  twilight 

blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons  : — happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  ;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !— Clear  and  loud 
The  village   clock   tolled   six— I    wheeled 

about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That   cares  not  for  his  home.— All  shod 

with  steel 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding 
norn.  [hare! 

The  pack  loud-bellowing,  and  the  hunted 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we 

flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle  :  with  the  din 
Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  the  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,   not  unnoticed,   while  the 
stars,  [WeSt 

Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  — orsportively        [throng, 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star, 
Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 


PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


20 


Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spin- 
ning still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short  ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had 

rolled 
Willi  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 


THE    LONGEST    DAY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  ' 

Let  us  quit  the  leafy  arbour, 
And  the  torrent  murmuring  by  : 
Sol  has  dropped  into  his  harbour, 
Weary  of  the  open  sky. 

Evening  now  unbinds  the  fetters 
Fashioned  by  the  glowing  light ; 
All  that  breathe  are  thankful  debtors 
To  the  harbinger  of  night. 

Yet  by  some  grave  thoughts  attended 
Eve  renews  her  calm  career  ; 
For  the  day  that  now  is  ended 
Is  the  longest  of  the  year. 

Laura  !  sport,  as  now  thou  sportest, 
On  this  platform,  light  and  free  ; 
Take  thy  bliss,  while  longest,  shortest, 
Are  indifferent  to  thee  ! 

Who  would  check  the  happy  feeling 
That  inspires  the  linnet's  song? 
Who  would  stop  the  swallow,  wheeling 
On  her  pinions  swift  and  strong  ? 

Yet  at  this  impressive  season, 
Words  which  tenderness  can  speak 
From  the  truths  of  homely  reason, 
Might  exalt  the  loveliest  cheek  ; 

And,  while  shades  to  shades  succeeding 
Steal  the  landscape  from  the  sight, 
I  would  urge  this  moral  pleading, 
Last  forerunner  of  ' '  Good  night !" 

Summer  ebbs  ;--each  day  that  follows 
Is  a  reflux  from  on  high, 
Tending  to  the  darksome  hollows 
Where  the  frosts  of  winter  lie. 


lie  who  governs  the  creation, 
In  his  providence,  assigned 
Such  a  gradual  declination 
To  the  life  of  human  kind. 

Yet  we  mark  it  not  ;— fruits  redden, 
Fresh  flowers  blow,  as  flowers  have  blown, 
And  the  heart  is  loth  to  deaden 
Hopes  that  she  so  long  hath  known. 

Be  thou  wiser,  youthful  maiden  ! 
And  when  thy  decline  sTiall  come, 
Let  not  flowers,  or  boughs  fruit-laden, 
Hide  the  knowledge  of  thy  doom. 

Now,  even  now,  ere  wrapped  in  slumber, 
Fix  thine  eyes  upon  the  sea 
That  absorbs  time,  space,  and  number  ; 
Look  towards  eternity ' 

Follow  thou  the  flowing  river 
On  whose  breast  are  thither  borne 
All  deceived,  and  each  deceiver, 
Through  the  gates  of  night  and  morn 

Through  the  year's  successive  portats  ; 
Through  the  bounds  which  many  n  bUi 
Marks,  not  mindless  of  frail  mortals, 
When  his  light  returns  from  far. 

Thus  when  thou  with  Time  hast  travelled 
Towards  the  mighty  gulf  of  things, 
And  the  mazy  stream  unravelled 
With  thy  best  imaginings  ; 

Think,  if  thou  on  beauty  leanest, 
Think  how  pitiful  that  stay, 
Did  not  virtue  give  the  meanest 
Charms  superior  to  decay. 

Duty,  like  a  strict  preceptor, 
Sometimes  frowns,  or  seems  to  frown  ; 
Choose  her  thistle  for  thy  sceptre, 
While  thy  brow  youth's  roses  crown. 

Grasp  it,— if  thou  shrink  and  tremble, 
Fairest  damsel  of  the  green, 
Thou  wilt  lack  the  only  symbol 
That  proclaims  a  genuine  queen  ; 

And  insures  those  palms  of  honour 
Which  selected  spirits  wear, 
Bending  low  before  the  donor, 
Lord  of  heaven's  unchanging  year  ! 


30 


'JJocms  Jfouttfrefo  mt  %  Jffecitans. 


THE    BROTHERS. 

"  These   tourists,    Heaven    preserve   us  ! 

needs  must  live 
A  profitable  life:  some  glance  along, 
Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air, 
And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 
Long  as  the  summer  lasted:  some,  as  wise, 
Perched  on  the  forehead  of  a  jutting  crag, 
Pencil  in  hand  and  book  upon  the  knee, 
Will  look  and  scribble,  scribble  on  and  look, 
Until   a   man   might    travel    twelve   stout 

miles, 
Or  reap  an  acre  of  his  neighbour's  corn. 
But,  for  that  moping  son  of  idleness, 
Why  can  he  tarry  yonder? — In  our  church- 
yard 
Is  neither  epitaph  nor  monument, 
Tombstone  nor   name — only  the  turf  we 

tread 
And  a  few  natural  graves." 

To  Jane,  his  wife, 
Thus  spake  the  homely  Priest  of  Enner- 

dale. 
It  was  a  July  evening;  and  he  sate 
Upon    the    long    stone-seat    beneath   the 

eaves  L^ay. 

Of  his  old  cottage, — as  it  chanced,    that 
Employed   in  winter's   work.     Upon   the 

stone  [wool, 

His   wife   sate   near   him,   teasing  matted 
While,  from  the  twin  cards  toothed  with 

glittering  wire, 
He  fed  the  spindle  of  his  youngest  child, 
Who  turned  her  large  round  wheel  in  the 

open  air  [the  field 

With  back  and  forward  steps.     Towards 
In  which  the  parish  chapel  stood  alone, 
Girt  round  with  a  bare  ring  of  mossy  wall, 
While  half  an  hour  went  by,  the  priest  had 

sent 
Many  a  long  look  of  wonder:  and  at  last, 
Risen  from  his  seat,  beside  the  snow-white 

ridge 
Of  carded  wool  which  the  old  man  had  piled 
He  laid  his  implements  with  gentle  care, 
Each  in  the  other  locked;  and,   down  the 

path  [led, 

That  from  his  cottage  to  the  church-yard 
He  took  his  way,  impatient  to  accost 
The  stranger,  whom  he  saw  still  lin^ermg 

there. 


i      'Twas  one  well  known  to  him  in  former 

days, 
A  shepherd-lad; — who  erehis  sixteenth  year 
Had  left  that  calling,  tempted  to  intrust 
His  expectations  to  the  fickle  winds 
And  perilous  waters, — with  the  mariners 
A  fellow-mariner, — and  so  had  fared 
Through  twenty  seasons;  but  he  had  been 

reared 
Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping   shrouds   had   Leonard 

heard 
The  tones  of  waterfalls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees: — and  when  the  regular 

wind 
Between  the  tropics  filled  the  steady  sail, 
And  blew  with  the  same  breath  through 

days  and  weeks, 
Lengthening  invisibly  its  weary  line 
Along  the   cloudless   main,    he,    in    those 

hours 
Of  tiresome  indolence,  would  often  hang 
Over  the  vessel's  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze; 
And,    while   the   broad    green   wave   and 

sparkling  foam  [wrought 

Flashed  round  him  images  and  hues  that 
In  union  with  the  employment  of  his  heart, 
He,  thus  by  feverish  passion  overcome, 
Even  with  the  organs  of  his  bodily  eye, 
Below  him,  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
Saw  mountains, — saw  the  forms  of  sheep 

that  grazed  [trees, 

On  verdant   hills — with  dwellings   among 
And  shepherds  clad  in  the  same  country 

gray 
Which  he  himself  had  worn.* 

And  now,  at  last, 
From  perils   manifold,    with    some   small 

wealth 
Acquired  by  traffic  'mid  the  Indian  Isles, 
To  his  paternal  home  he  is  returned, 
With  a  determined  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  he  had  lived  there;  both  for  the 

sake 
Of  many  darling  pleasures,  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  has  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 


*  This  description  of  the  Calenture  is  sketched 
from  an  imperfect  recollection  of  an  admirable 
one  in  prose,  by  Mr-  Gilbert,  author  of  "  The 
Hurricane." 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


31 


When,  whether  it  blew  foul  or  fair,   they 

two 
Were  brother  shepherds  on  their  native  hills. 
They  were  the  last  of  all  their  race:  and 

now,  [his  heart 

When  Leonard  had  approached  his  home, 
Failed  fn  him;  and,    not   venturing  to  in- 
quire 
Tidings  of  one  whom  he  so  dearly  loved, 
Towards  the  church-yard  he  had  turned 

aside; 
That,  as  he  knew  in  what  particular  spot 
His  family  were  laid,  he  thence  might  learn 
If  still  his  brother  lived,  or  to  the  file 
Another  grave  was  added. — He  had  found 
Another  grave, — near  which  a  full  half-hour 
He  had  remained;  but,  as  he  gazed,  there 

grew 
Such  a  confusion  in  his  memory, 
That  he  began  to  doubt;  and  he  had  hopes 
That  he  had  seen  this  heap  of  turf  before — 
That  it  was  not  another  grave;  but  one 
He  had  forgotten.     He  had  lost  his  path, 
As  up  the  vale,  that  afternoon,  he  walked 
Through  fields  which  once  had  been  well 

known  to  him: 
And,  oh,  what  joy  the  recollection  now- 
Sent  to  his  heart!     He  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
And,  looking  round,  imagined  that  he  saw 
Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the 

rocks,  [changed. 

And    everlasting    hills    themselves    were 

By  this  the  priest,  who  down  the  field  had 

come 
Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 
Stopped  short, — and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb 

by  limb 
Perused  him  with  a  gay  complacency. 
,  Ay,  thought  the  vicar,  smiling  to  himself, 
'Tis  one  of  those  who  needs  must  leave  the 

path 
Of  the  world's  business  to  go  wild  alone: 
His  arms  have  a  perpetual  holiday; 
The    happy  man    will    creep    about    the 

fields, 
Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles, 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  fool  upon   his   forehead.      Planted 

thus 
Beneath  a  shed  that  over-arched  the  gate 
Of  this   rude   church-yard,    till   the   stars 

appeared,  [with  himself, 

The   good    man    might  have   communed 
But  that  the  stranger,   who  had  left  the 

grave,  [once, 

Approached;  he  recognised  the  priest  at 


And,    after   greetings    interchanged,    and 

given 
By  Leonard  to  the  vicar  as  to  one 
Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued: — 
Leonard.   You  live,  sir,  in  these  dales,  a 

quiet  life  : 
Your  years  make  up  one  peaceful  family; 
And  who  would  grieve  and  fret,  if,  welcome 

come  [other, 

And  welcome  gone,  they  are  so  like  each 
They   cannot  be   remembered?    Scarce  a 

funeral  [months; 

Comes  to  this  churchyard  once  in  eighteen 
And  yet,  some   changes  must  take   place 

among  you;  [rocks, 

And  you,  who  dwell  here,  even  among  these 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality, 
And  see,   that  with   our  threescore  years 

and  ten 

We  are  not  all  that  perish. 1  remember, 

(For  many  years  ago  I  passed  this  road) 
There  was  a  foot-way  all  along  the  fields 
By    the    brook-side — 'tis   gone — and   that 

dark  cleft! 
To  me  it  does  not  seem  to  wear  the  face 
Which  then  it  had  ! 

Priest.  Nay,  sir,  for  aught  I  know, 

That  chasm  is  much  the  same — 
Leonard.  But,  surely,  yonder — 
Priest.  Ay,  there,  indeed,   your  memory 

is  a  friend  [tall  pike 

That  does  not  play  you   false. — On    that 
(It  is  the  loneliest  place  of  all  these  hills) 
There  were  two  springs  which  bubbled  side 

by  side, 
As  if  they  had  been  made  that  they  might  be 
Companions  for  each  other:  the  huge  crag 
Was   rent   with   lightning— one  hath  dis- 
appeared ; 
The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still. 
For  accidents  and  changes  such  as  these, 
We  want  not  store  of  them: — a  water-sporC 
Will  bring  down  half  a  mountain;  what  a 

feast 
Forfolks  that  wanderup  and  down  like  you, 
To  see  an  acre's  breadth  of  that  wide  clift 
One  roaring  cataract! — a  sharp  May-storm 
Will  come  with  loads  of  January  snow, 
And   in   one   night   send  twenty  score  of 

sheep 
To  feed  the  ravens;  or  a  shepherd  dies 
By  some  untoward  death  among  the  rocks: 
The   ice   breaks   up   and   sweeps   away  a 

bridge —  [homes! 

A  wood  is  felled:— and  then  for  our  own 
A    child   is   born   or   christened,    a    field 

ploughed, 
A  daughter  sent  to  service,  a  web  spun, 


32 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


The  old  house-clock  is  decked  with  a  new 

face;  [dates 

And  hence,  so  far  from  wanting  facts  or 
To  chronicle  the  time,  we  all  have  here 
A  pair  of  diaries, — one  serving,  sir, 
For  the  whole  dale,  and  one  for  each  fire- 
side—  [historians, 
Yours  was  a  stranger's  judgment:  for 
Commend  me  to  these  valleys! 

Leonard.  Yet  your  church-yard 

Seems,  if  such  freedom  may  be  used  with 

you, 
To  say  that  you  are  heedless  of  the  past: 
An   orphan   could   not   find   his   mother's 

grave:  [of  brass, 

Here's   neither  head  nor  footstone,    plate 
Cross-bones  nor  skull, — type  of  our  earthly 

state  [home 

Nor  emblem  of  our  hopes:  the  dead  man's 
Is  but  a  fellow  to  that  pasture-field. 

Priest.  Why,    there,    sir,    is   a   thought 

that's  new  to  me!  [their  bread 

The    stone-cutters,    'tis    true,    might   beg 
If  every    English    church-yard   were   like 

ours;  [truth: 

Yet    your    conclusion    wanders   from   the 
We  have  no  need  of  names  and  epitaphs; 
We  talk  about  the  dead  by  our  fire-sides. 
And  then,  for  our  immortal  part!  we  want 
No  symbols,  sir,  to  tell  us  that  plain  tale: 
The  thought  of  death  sits  easy  on  the  man 
Who  has  been  born  and  dies  among  the 

mountains. 
Leonard.     Your  dalesmen,   then,    do  in 

each  other's  thoughts 
Possess  a  kind  of  second  life:  no  doubt 
You,  sir,  could  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  graves? 

Priest.  For  eight-score  winters  past, 

With  what  I've  witnessed,    and  with  what 

I've  heard, 
Perhaps  I  might;  and,  on  a  winter-evening, 
If  you  were  seated  at  my  chimney's  nook, 
By  turning  o'er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 
We  two  could  travel,  sir,  through  a  strange 

round; 
Yet  all  in  the  broad  highway  of  the  world. 
Now  there's  a  grave — your  foot  is  half  upon 

it,— 
It  looks  just  like  the  rest;  and  yet  that  man 
Died  broken-hearted. 

Leonard.  'Tis  a  common  case. 

We'll  take  another:  who  is  he  that  lies 
Beneath  yon  ridge,  the  last  of  those  three 

graves  ? 
It  touches  on  that  piece  of  native  rock 
Left  in  the  church-yard  wall. 

Priest  That's  Walter  Ewbank. 


He  had  as  white  a  head  and  fresh  a  cheek 
As  ever  were  produced  by  youth  and  age 
Engendering  in  the  blood  of  hale  fourscore. 
Through  five  long  generations  had  the  heart 
Of    Walter's    forefathers    o'erflowed    the 

bounds 
Of  their  inheritance,  that  single  cottage — 
You  see  it  yonder! — and  those  few  green 
fields.  [to  son, 

They  toiled  and  wrought,  and  still,  from  sire 
Each  struggled,  and  each  yielded  as  before 
A  little  —yet  a  little — and  old  Walter, 
They  left  to  him  the  family  heart,  and  land 
With  other  burthens  than  the  crop  it  bore. 
Year  after  year  the  old  man  still  kept  up 
A  cheerful  mind, — and  buffeted  with  bond, 
Interest,  and  mortgages  ;  at  last  he  sank, 
And  went  into  his  grave  before  his  time. 
Poor    Walter !    whether  it   was  care  that 

spurred  him 
God  only  knows,  but  to  the  very  last 
He  had  the  lightest  foot  in  Ennerdale  : 
His  pace  was  never  that  of  an  old  man  : 
I  almost  see  him  tripping  down  the  path 
With  his  two  grandsons  after  him: — but  you, 
Unless  our  landlord  be  your  host  to-night, 
Have  far  to  travel,- — and  on  these  roug' 

paths 
Even  in  the  longest  day  of  midsummer — 

Leonard.   But  those  two  orphans  ! 

Priest.        Orphans  ! — Such  they  were-  - 
Yet  not  while  Walter  lived :— for,  though 

their  parents 
Lay  buried  side  by  side  as  now  they  lie, 
The  old  man  was  a  father  to  the  boys, 
Two  fathers  in  one  father  :  and  if  tears, 
Shed  when  he  talked  of  them  where  they 

were  not, 
And  hauntings  from  the  infirmity  of  love, 
Are  aught  of  what  makes  up  a  mother's 

heart, 
This  old  man,  in  the  day  of  his  old  age, 
Was  half  a  mother  to  them. — If  you  weep, 

sir, 
To  hear  a  stranger  talking  about  strangers, 
Heaven   bless  you  when  you  are  among 

your  kindred  ! 
Ay — you  may  turn  that  way — it  is  a  grave 
Which  will  bear  looking  at. 

Leonard.  These  boys— I  hope 

They  loved  this  good  old  man  ? 

Priest.  They  did— and  truly  : 

But  that  was  what  we  almost  overlooked, 
They  were  such  darlings  of  each  other.  For, 
Though  from  their  cradles  they  had  lived 

with  Walter, 
The  only  kinsman  nearthem,  and  though  he 
Inclir^d  to  them  by  reason  of  his  age. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS 


33 


With  a  more  fond,  familiar  tenderness  ; 
They,  notwithstanding,  had  much  love  to 

spare, 
And  it  all  went  into  each  other's  hearts. 

trd,  the  elder  by  just  eighteen  months, 
Was  two  years  taller  :  'twas  a  joy  to  see, 
1  o  hear,  to  meet  them  ! — From  their  house 

the  school 
Is  distant  three  short  miles — and  in  the  time 
Of  storm  and  (haw,  when  every  water-course 
And  unbridged  stream,  such  as  you  may 

have  noticed 
Tossing  our  roads  at  every  hundred  steps, 
Was  swoln  into  a  noisy  rivulet, 
Would    Leonard  then,    when   elder  boys 

perhaps  [the  fords 

Remained  at  home,  go  staggering  through 
Bearing  his  brother  on  his  back.    I've  seen 

him, 
On  windy  days,  in  one  of  those  stray  brooks, 
Ay,  more  than  once  I've  seen  him  mid-Leg 

deep, 
Their  two  books  lying  both  on  a  dry  stone 
Upon  the  hither  side  :  and  once  I  said, 
As  I  remember,  looking  round  these  rocks 
And  hills  on  which  we  all  of  us  were  born, 
That  God  who  made  the  great  book  of  the 

world 
Would  bless  such  piety — 
Leonard.  It  may  be  then — 

Priest.  Never  did   worthier  lads  break 

English  bread  ; 
The  finest  Sunday  that  the  autumn  saw, 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts, 
Could  never  keep  these  boys  away  from 

church, 
Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  Sabbath  breach. 
Leonard  and  James!  I  warrant  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
Where  foot  could  come,  to  one  or  both  of 

them  [grow  there. 

Was  known  as  well  as  to  the  flowers  that 
Like   roebucks   they   went   bounding  o'er 

the  hills  ;  [the  crags  : 

They  played   like  two   young   ravens   on 
Then  they  could  write,  ay,  and  speak  too, 

as  well 
As  many  of  their  betters — and  for  Leonard ! 
The  very  night  before  he  went  away, 
In  my  own  house  I  put  into  his  hand 
A  Bible,  and  I'd  wager  house  and  field 
That  if  he  is  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 
Leonard.   It  seems  these  brothers   have 

not  lived  to  be 
A  comfort  to  each  other — 

Priest.  That  they  might 

Live   to   such   end  is  what  both  old  and 

young 


In  this  our  valley  all  of  us  have  wished, 

And  what,  for  my  part  I  have  often  prayed: 

But  Leonard —  [you! 

Leonard.  Then  James  still  is  left  among 

Priest.     'Tis  of  the  elder  brother  I   am 

speaking  : 
They  had  an  uncle  ; — he  was  at  that  time 
A  thriving  man,  and  trafficked  on  the  seas: 
And,  but  for  that  same  uncle,  to  this  hour 
Leonard  had  never  handled  rope  or  shroud, 
For  the  boy  loved   the  life  which  we  lead 

here  ; 
And  though  of  unripe  years,  a  stripling  only, 
His  soul  was  knit  lo  this  his  native  soil. 
But,  as  I  said,  old  Walter  was  too  weak 
To  strive  with  such  a  torrent;  when  he  died, 
The  estate  and  house  were  sold  ;  and  all 

their  sheep,  [know, 

A    pretty   flock,   and   which,    for  aught  I 
Had  clothed  the  Ewbanks  for  a  thousand 

years  : — 
Well — all  was  gone,  and  they  were  destitute, 
And  Leonard,  chiefly  for  his  brother's  sake, 
Resolved  lo  try  his  fortune  on  the  seas. 
Twelve  years   are   passed   since   we    had 

tidings  from  him. 
If  there  were  one  among  us  who  had  heard 
That   Leonard    Ewbank  was  come  home 

again,  [banks, 

From  the  great  Gavel,*  down  by  Leeza's 
And  down  the  Enna,  far  as  Egremont, 
The  day  would  be  a  very  festival ; 
And  those  two  bells  of  ours,  which  there 

you  see — 
Hanging  in  the  open  air — but,  O  good  sir! 
This  is  sad  talk — they'll  never  sound  for 

him —  [him 

Living  or  dead. — When  last   we  heard  of 
He  was  in  slavery  among  the  Moors 
Upon    the   Barbary  coast. — 'Twas  not   a 

little  [doubt, 

That  would  bring  down  his  spirit  ;  and  no 
Before  it  ended  in  his  death,  the  youth 
Was  sadly  crossed — Poor  Leonard  !  when 

we  parted, 
He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said  'o  me, 
If  ever  the  day  came  when  he  was  1  eh, 
He  would  return,  and  on  his  father's  land 
He  would  grow  old  among  us. 

*  The  Great  Gavel,  so  called,  I  imagine,  from 
its  resemblance  to  the  gable  end  of  a  house,  is 
one  of  the  highest  of  the  Cumberland  moun- 
tains. 

The  Leeza  is  a  river  which  flows  into  tbf 
Lake  of  Ennerdale  :  on  issuing  from  the  I.aKo. 
it  changes  its  name,  and  is  called  the  End,  Eyne, 
or  Enna.  It  falls  into  the  sea  a  little  belo* 
Egremont. 


34 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Leonard.  If  that  day 

Should  come,  'twould  needs  be  a  glad  day 

for  him  ; 
He  would  himself,  no  doubt,  be  happy  then 
As  any  that  should  meet  him— 

Priest.  Happy  !  Sir— 

Leonard.  You  said  his  kindred  all  were 
in  their  graves, 
And  that  he  had  one  brother — 

Priest.  That  is  but 

A  fellow  tale  of  sorrow.     From  his  youth 
fames,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate; 
And  Leonard  being  always  by  his  side 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him, 
That,  though  he  was  not  of  a  timid  nature, 
Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a  mountain-boy 
In  him  was  somewhat  checked  ;  and  when 

his  brother 
Was  gone  to  sea,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
The  little  colour  that  he  had  was  soon 
Stolen   from  his  cheek ;  he  drooped,   and 
pined,  and  pined — 
Leonard.  But  these  are  all  the  graves  of 

full-grown  men  ! 
Priest.    Ay,  sir,  that  passed  away  :    we 
took  him  to  us  ; 
He  was  the  child  of  all  the  dale — he  lived 
Three  months  with   one  and  six  months 
with  another  ;  [love: 

And  wanted  neither  food,  nor  clothes,  nor 
And  many,  many  happy  days  were  his. 
But  whether  blithe  or  sad,  'tis  my  belief 
His  absent  brother  still  was  at  his  heart. 
And,  when  he  dwelt  beneath  our  roof,  we 

found 
(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him) 
That  often,  rising  from  his  bed  at  night, 
He   in  his  sleep  would  walk   about,  and 
sleeping  [moved ! 

He  sought  his  brother  Leonard. — You  are 
Forgive  me,  sir  :  before  I  spoke  to  you, 
I  judged  you  most  unkindly. 

Leonard.  But  this  youth, 

How  did  he  die  at  last  ? 

Prieit.  One  sweet  May  morning, 

(It  will  be  twelve  years  since  when  spring 

returns)  [lambs, 

He  had  gone  forth  among  the  new-dropped 

With    two   or    three    companions,    whom 

their  course 
Of  occupation  led  from  height  to  height 
Under  a  cloudless  sun,  till  he,  at  length, 
Through  weariness,  or,  haply,  to  indulge 
Thehumour  of  the  moment,  lagged  behind. 
You  see  von  precipice  ; — it  wears  the  shape 
Of  a  vast  building  made  of  many  crags  ; 
And  in  the  midst  is  one  particular  rock 
That  rises  like  a  column  from  the  vale, 


Whence  by  our  shepherds  it  is  called  THE 

Pillar. 
Upon  its  aery  summit  crowned  with  heath, 
The  loiterer,  not  unnoticed  by  his  comrades, 
Lay  stretched  at  ease ;  but,  passing  by  the 

place 
On  their  return,  theyfoundthathewasgone. 
No  ill  was    feared  ;    but  one  of  them  by 

chance 
Entering,  when  evening  was  far  spent,  the 
house  [learned 

Which  at  that  time  was  James's  home,  there 
That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day  : 
The  morning  came,  and  still  he  was  un- 
heard of :  [brook 
The  neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  to  the 
Some  hastened,  some  towards  the  lake  : 
ere  noon                                      [rock — 
They  found  him  at  the  foot  of  that  same 
Dead,  and  with  mangled  limbs.     The  third 

day  after 
I  buried  him,  pooryouth,  and  there  he  lies! 
Leonard.  And  that  then  is  his  grave  ! — 
Before  his  death 
You  say  that  he  saw  many  happy  years  ? 
Priest.  Ay,  that  he  did— 
Leonard.  And  all  went  well  with  him  ? — 
Priest.   If  he  had  one,  the   youth    had 

twenty  homes. 
Leonard.    And  you  believe,   then,   that 

his  mind  was  easy  ? — 
Priest.    Yes,   long   before  he   died,    he 
found  that  time 
Is  a  true  friend  to  sorrow  ;  and  unless 
His  thoughts  were  turned  on    Leonard's 

luckless  fortune, 
He  talked  about  him  with  a  cheerful  love. 
Leonard.  He  could  not  come  to  an  un- 
hallowed end  ! 
Priest.  Nay,  God  forbid! — You  recollect 
I  mentioned 
A  habit  which  disquietude  and  grief 
Had  brought  upon  him  ;  and  we  all  con- 
jectured [down 
That,  as  the  day  was  warm,   he  had  lain 
Upon  the  grass, — and  waiting  for  his  com- 
rades, [sleep 
He  there  had  fallen  asleep  ;    that  in  his 
He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice 
Had  walked,   and  from  the  summit    had 

fallen  headlong. 
And  so,  no  doubt,  he  perished  :  at  the  time, 
We  guess,  that  in  his  hands  he  must  have 

held 
His  shepherd's  staff;  for  midway  in  the  cliff 
It  had  been  caught  ;  and  there  for  many 

years 
It  hung,  and  mouldered  there — 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  TEE  AFFEOTIONB. 


35 


The  priest  here  ended— 

The  stranger  would  have  thanked  him,  but 

he  felt 
,\  gushing  from  his  heart,  that  took  away 
The  power  of  speech.     Both  left  the  spot 

in  silence  ;  [yard  gate, 

And  Leonard,  when  they  reached  thechurch- 
As  the  priest  lifted  up  the  latch,  turned 

round,—  [Brother  !"  ; 

And  looking  at  the  grave,  he  said,  "  My 
The  vicar  did  not  hear  the  words  :  and  now, 
Pointing  towards  the  cottage,  he  entreated 
That  Leonard  would  partake  his  homely  i 

fare  :  [voice;  ! 

The  other  thanked  him  with  a  fervent 
But  added,  that,  the  evening  being  calm,    !, 

I  [e   would   pursue   his  journey.     So  they  j 

parted. 

I I  was  not  long  ere  Leonard  reached  a  grove  j 
That  overhung  the  road  :  he  there  stopped  j 

short,  [viewed 

And,  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  re- 1 
All  that  the  priest  had  said  :  his  early  years 
Were  with  him  in  his  heart  :  his  cherished 

hopes,  rbefore,  I 

And  thoughts  which  had  been  his  an  hour 
All   pressed   on  him  with  such  a  weight,  I 

that  now,  [seemed  ] 

This  vale,  where  he  had  been  so  happy, 
A  place  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  live: 
'  So  he  relinquished  all  his  purposes. 
1  le  travelled  on  to  Egremont  :  and  thence, 
That  night,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  priest, 
Reminding  him  of  what  had  passed  between 

them  ; 
And  adding,  with  a  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
That  it  was  from  the  weakness  of  Ins  heart 
He  had  not  dared  to  tell  him  who  he  was. 

This  done,  he  went  on  shipboard,  and  is 

now 
A  seaman,  a  gray-headed  mariner. 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE. 

(SEE  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  GEOFFREY  OF 
MONMOUTH,  AND  MILTON  S  HISTORY 
OF   ENGLAND.) 

WHERE  be  the  temples  which,  in  Britain's 

Isle, 
For  his  paternal  gods,  the  Trojan  raised? 
Gone  like  a  morning  dream,  or  like  a  pile 
Of  clouds  that  in  cerulean  ether  blazed  ! 
Ere  Julius  landed  on  herwhite-cliffed  shore, 
They  sank,  delivered  o'er 


To  fatal  dissolution  ;  and,  I  wcon, 
No  vestige  then  was  left  that  such  had  ever 
been. 

Nathless,  a  British  record  (long  concealed 
In  old  Armorica,  whose  secret  springs 
No  Gothic  conqueror  ever  drank)  revealed 
The  wondrous  current  of  forgotten  things; 
How  Brutus  came,  by  oracles  impelled, 

And  Albion's  giants  quelled, — 
A  brood  whom  no  civility  could  melt, 
"Who  never  tasted  grace,  and  goodness 
ne'er  had  felt." 

By  brave  Corineus  aided,  he  subdued, 
And  rooted  out  the  intolerable  kind  ; 
And  this  too-long-polluted  land  imbued 
With  goodly  arts  and  usages  refined  ; 
Whence   golden   harvests,    cities,    warlike 

towers, 
And  pleasure's  sumptuous  bowers  , 
Whence  all  the  fixed  delights  of  house  and 

home,  [that  cannot  roam. 

Friendships  that  will  not  break,  and  love 

O  happy  Britain  !  region  all  too  fair 
For  self-delighting  fancy  to  endure 
]  That  silence  only  should  inhabit  there, 
Wild  beasts,  or  uncouth  savages  impure  ! 
But,  intermingled  with  the  generous  seed, 

Grew  many  a  poisonous  weed  ? 
Thus  fares  it  still  with  all  that  takes  its 
birth  [breast  of  earth. 

From   human   care,    or  grows   upon    the 

Hence,  and  how  soon  !    that  war  of  ven- 
geance waged 

By  Guendolen  against  her  faithless  lord  ; 

Till  she,  in  jealous  fury  unassuaged, 

Had   slain    his    paramour    with    ruthless 
sword  : 

Then,  into  Severn  hideously  defiled, 
She  flung  her  blameless  child, 

Sabrina,— vowing  that  the  stream  should 
bear  [to  declare. 

That  name  through  every  age,  her  hatred 

So  speaks  the  Chronicle,  and  tells  of  Lear 
By  his  ungrateful  daughters  turned  adrift. 
Ye  lightnings  hear  his  voice  !— they  cannot 

hear,  . 

Nor  can  the  winds  restore  his  simple  gilt. 
But  one  there  is,  a  child  of  nature  meek, 

Who  comes  her  sire  to  seek  ; 
And  he,  recovering  sense,  upon  her  breast 
Leans  smilingly,  and  sinks  into  a  perfect 

rest. 


36 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  TEE  AFFECTIONS. 


There  too  we  read  of  Spenser's  fairy  themes, 
knd  those  that  Milton  loved  in  youthful 

years  ; 
The  sage  enchanter Merlin'ssubtleschemes; 
The  feats  of  Arthur  and  his  knightly  peers; 
Of  Arthur, — who,  to  upper  light  restored 

With  that  terrific  sword 
Which  yet  he  wields  in  subterranean  war, 
Shall  lift  his  country's  fame  above  the  oolar 

star  ! 

What  wonder,  then,  if  in  such  ample  field 
Of  old  tradition,  one  particular  flower 
Doth  seemingly  in  vain  its  fragrance  yield, 
And    bloom   unnoticed   even  to   this   late 

hour  ? 
Now,  gentle  Muses,  your  assistance  grant, 

While  I  this  flower  transplant 
Into  a  garden  stored  with  poesy  ; 
Where  flowers  and  herbs  unite,  and  haply 

some  weeds  be,  [mischief  free  ! 

That,  wanting  not  wild  grace,  are  from  all 


A  King  more  worthy  of  respect  and  love 
Than  wise  Gorbonian,  ruled  not  in  his  day; 
And  grateful  Britain  prospered  far  above 
All   neighbouring    countries   through    his 
righteous  sway  ;  [good  ; 

He  poured   rewards  and  honours  on  the 

The  oppressor  he  withstood  ; 
And  while  lie  served  the  gods  with  reve- 
rence due,  [and  cities  grew. 
Field  smiled,  and  temples  rose,  and  towns 

He  died,  whom  Artegal  succeeds— his  son; 
1  'ut  how  unworthy  oTsuch  sire  was  he  ! 
A  hopeful  reign,  auspiciously  begun, 
Was  darkened  soon  by  foul  iniquity. 
From   crime  to  crime  he  mounted,  till  at 

length 
The  nobles  leagued  their  strength 
With  a  vexed  people,  and  the  tyrant  chased; 
And,  on   the  vacant  throne,   his  worthier 

brother  placed. 

From  realm  to  realm  the  humbled  exile 

went, 
Suppliant  for  aid  his  kingdom  to  regain  ; 
In  many  a  court,  and  many  a  warrior's  tent, 
He  urged  his  persevering  suit  in  vain. 
Him,  in  whose  wretched   heart   ambition 

failed, 

Dire  poverty  assailed  ; 
And,  tired  with  slights  which  he  no  more 

could  brook,  [look. 

Towards  his  native  »oil  he  cast  a  longing 


Fair  blew  the  wished-for  wind— the  voyage 

sped  ; 
He  landed  ;  and,  by  many  dangers  scared, 
"  Poorly  provided,  poorly  followed," 
To  Calaterium's  forest  he  repaired. 
How   changed  from   him    who,    born    to 

highest  place, 

Had  swayed  the  royal  mace, 
Flattered  and  feared,  despised  yet  deified, 
In  Troynovant,  his  seat  by  silver  Thames's 

side  I 

From  that  wild  region  where  the  crownless 

king 
Lay  in  concealment  with  his  scanty  train, 
Supporting  life  by  water  from  the  spring, 
And  such  chance  food  as  outlaws  can  ob- 
tain, 
Unto  the  few  whom  he  esteems  his  friends 

A  messenger  he  sends  ; 
And  from  their  secret  loyalty  requires 
Shelter  and  daily  bread,— the  amount  of 
his  desires. 

While  he  the  issue  waits,  at  early  morn 
Wandering  by  stealth  abioad,  he  chanced 
to  hear  [horrii 

A  startling  outcry   made   by   hound   and 
From  which  the  tusky  boar  hath  fled  in 
,    ar  >   .  [plain, 

And,  scouring  towards  him  o'er  the  grassy 

Behold  the  hunter  train  ! 
He  bids  his  little  company  advance 
With  seeming  unconcern  and  steady  coun- 
tenance. 

The  royal  Elidure,  who  leads  the  chase, 
Hath  checked  his  foaming  courser— Can  il 

be  ?  [face 

Methinks  that  I  should  recognise  that 
Though  much  disguised  by  long  adversity  ! 
He  gazed,  rejoicing,  and  again  he  gazed, 

Confounded  and  amazed — 
"It  is  the  king,   my   brother!"  and     by 

sound  [the  ground. 

Of  his  own  voice  confirmed,  he  leaps  upon 

Long,  strict,  and  tender  was  the  embrace 
he  gave, 

Feebly  returned  by  daunted  Artegal ; 

Whose  natural  affection  doubts  enslave, 

And  apprehensions  dark  and  criminal. 

Loth  to  restrain  the  moving  interview, 
The  attendant  lords  withdrew  ;' 

And,  while  they  stood  upon  the  plain  apart 

Thus  Ehdure,  by  words,  relieved  his  strug- 
gling heart : 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


37 


"  By  heavenly  Powers  conducted,  we  have 
met ; 

0  brother !  to  my  knowledge  lost  so  long, 
But  neither  lost  to  love,  nor  to  regret, 
Nor  to  my  wishes  lost; — forgive  the  wrong, 
(Such  it  may  seem)  if  I   thy  crown  have 

Thy  royal  mantle  worn  :         ^borne, 

1  was  their  natural  guardian  ;  and  tis  just 
That  now  I  should  restore  what  hath  been 

held  in  trust." 

A  while  the  astonished  Artegal  stood  mute, 
Then  thus  exclaimed — "To  me,  of  titles 

shorn,  [tute, 

And  stripped  of  power! — me,  feeble,  desti- 
To    me    a   kingdom  ! — spare    the  bitter 

scorn ! 
If  justice  ruled  the  breast  of  foreign  kings, 

Then,  on  the  wide-spread  wings 
Of  war,  had  I  returned  to  claim  my  right  ; 
This  will  I   here  avow,  not  dreading  thy 

despite." 

"  I  do  not  blame  thee,"  Elidure  replied  ; 
"  But,  if  my  looks  did  with  my  words  agree, 
I  should  at  once  be  trusted,  not  defied, 
And  thou  from  all  disquietude  be  free. 
May  the  unsullied  goddess  of  the  chase, 

Who  to  this  blessed  place 
At  this  blest  moment  led  me,  if  I  speak 
With  insincere  intent,  on  me  her  vengeance 
wreak  ! 

' '  Were  this  same  spear,  which  in  my  hand 

I  grasp, 
The  British  sceptre,  here  would  I  to  thee 
The  symbol  yield  ;  and  would   undo  this 

clasp, 
If  it  confined  the  robe  of  sovereignty. 
Odious  to  me  the  pomp  of  regal  court, 

And  joyless  sylvan  sport,  [lorn, 

While  thou  art  roving,  wretched  and   for- 
Thy  couch  the  dewy  earth,  thy  roof  the 

forest  thorn  !" 

Then  Artegal  thus  spake — "I  only  sought, 
Within  this  realm  a  place  of  safe  retreat  ; 
Beware  of  rousing  an  ambitious  thought ; 
Beware  of  kindling  hopes,  for  me  unmeet ! 
Thou  art  reputed  wise,  but  in  my  mind 

Art  pitiably  blind  ;  [rue, 

Full  soon  this  generous  purpose  thou  mayst 
When  that  which  has  been  done  no  wishes 
can  undo. 

' '  Who,  when  a  crown  is  fixed  upon  his 

head,  [right  with  right  ? 

W'juld    balance    claim   with    claim,   and 


But  thou— I  know  not  how  inspired,  how 
led —  [men's  sight! 

Wouldst  change  the  course  of  things  in  all 
And  this  for  one  who  cannot  imitate 

Thy  virtue — who  may  hate  : 
For,  if,  by  such  strange  sacrifice  restored, 
He  reign,  thou  still  must  be  his  king,  and 
sovereign  lord. 

"  Lifted  in  magnanimity  above 
Aught  that  my  feeble  nature  could  perform, 
Or  even  conceive  ;  surpassing  me  in  love 
Far  as  in  power  the  cngle  doth  the  worm  ; 
I,  brother  !  only  should  be  king  in  name, 

And  govern  to  my  shame  ; 
A  shadow  in  a  hated  land,  while  all 
Of  glad  or  willing  service   to    thy   share 
would  fall." 

"  Believe  it  not,"  said  Elidure  ;   "  respect 
Awaits  on  virtuous  life,  and  ever  most 
Attendson  goodness  with  dominiondecked, 
Which  stands  the  universal  empire's  boast; 
This  can  thy  own  experience  testify  : 

Nor  shall  thy  foes  deny 
That,  in  the  gracious  opening  of  thy  reign, 
Our    father's    spirit    seemed    in    thee    to 
breathe  again. 

"And  what  if  o'er  that  bright  unbosoming 
Clouds   of  disgrace   and   envious   fortune 

past  ! 
Have  we  not  seen  the  glories  of  the  spring 
By  veil  of  noontide  darkness  overcast  ? 
The   frith    that    glittered   like  a  warrior's 

shield, 

The  sky,  the  gay  green  field, 
Are    vanished  ; — gladness    ceases   in    the 

groves,  [mountain  coves. 

And    trepidation    strikes    the    blackened 

"But  is  that  gloom  dissolved?  how  pass- 
ing clear  [before ! 

Seems  the  wide  world — far  brighter  than 

Even  so  thy  latent  worth  will  re-appear, 

Gladdening  the  people's  heart  from  shore 
to  shore,  [atone  ; 

For  youthful  faults  ripe  virtues  shall 
Re-seated  on  thy  throne, 

Proof  shalt  thou  furnish  that  misfortune, 
pain,  [right  to  reign. 

And   sorrow,    have    confirmed    thy  natisv* 

"But,   not  to  overlook  what  thou  mayst 

know, 
Thy  enemies  are  neither  weak  nor  few  ; 
And  circumspect  must  be  our  course,  and 

slow, 


38 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Or  from  my  purpose  ruin  may  ensue. 
Dismiss   thy  followers  ; — let  them  calmly 
Such  change  in  thy  estate  [wait 

As  I  already  have  in  thought  devised  ; 
And  which,  with  caution  due,  may  soon  be 
realised." 

The  story  tells  what  courses  were  pursued, 
Until  King  Elidure,  with  full  consent 
Of  all  his  peers,  before  the  multitude, 
Rose, — and,  to  consummate  this  just  intent, 
Did   place   upon  his   brother's   head    the 

crown, 

Relinquished  by  his  own; 
Then  to  his  people  cried,  "  Receive  your 

lord,  [king  restored  !" 

Gorbonian's   first-born  son,   your   rightful 

The  people  answered  with  a  loud  acclaim : 
Yet    more; — heart-smitten  by   the  heroic 

deed, 
Th^  reinstated  Artegal  became 
Earth's   noblest   penitent;    from   bondage 

freed 
Of  vice, — thenceforth  unable  to  subvert 

Or  shake  his  high  desert. 
Long  did  he  reign;  and,  when  he  died,  the 

tear  [bier. 

Of  universal  grief  bedewed  his  honoured 

Thus  was  a  brother  by  a  brother  saved; 
With  whom  a  crown  (temptation  that  hath 

set  [braved 

Discords  in  hearts  of  men  till  they  have 
Their  nearest  kin  with  deadly  purpose  met) 
'Gainst  duty  weighed,  and  faithful  love,  did 

seem 
A  thing  of  no  esteem, 
And,  from  this  triumph  of  affection  pure, 
He    bore    the    lasting   name   of    "  pious 

Elidure  !" 


THE  SPARROW'S  NEST. 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade, 
Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid! 
On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  delight. 
I  started — seeming  to  espy 
The  home  and  sheltered  bed, — 
Th'j  sparrow's  dwelling,  which,  hard  by, 
My  father's  house,  in  wet  or  dry, 
My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 

Together  visited. 
She  looked  at  it  as  if  she  feared  it; 
Still  wishing,  dreading  to  be  near  it : 


Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A  little  prattler  among  men. 
The  blessing  of  my  later  years 
Was  with  me  when  a  boy  : 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears; 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears; 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears; 
And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

I've  watched  you  now  a  full  half-hour, 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower; 
And,  little  butterfly  !  indeed 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 
How  motionless! — not  frozen  seas 
More  motionless  !  and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 
And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  orchard-ground  is  ours; 
My  trees  they  are,  my  sister's  flowers; 
Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary; 
Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary  ! 
Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong; 
Sit  near  us,  on  the  bough  ! 
We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song; 
And  summer  days  when  we  were  young; 
Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 
As  twenty  days  are  now. 


A  FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  thou  little  nook  of  mountain 

ground, 
Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent   temple   which   doth 

bound  [rare; 

One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  grandeur 
Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The    loveliest   spot    that    man  hath   ever 

found,  [peaceful  care, 

Farewell! — we    leave    thee     to    Heaven's 
Thee,   and  the  cottage   which   thou   dost 

surround. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  safely  she  will  ride  when  we  are  gone; 
The   flowering  shrubs   that   decorate   our 

door 
Will  prosper,  though  untended  and  alone: 
Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have 

none:  [store 

These  narrow  bounds  contain  out  private 


POEMS  FOVNVEI)  0>K  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


39 


Of  things  earth  makes  and  sun  doth  shine 

upon  ;  [more. 

Here  they  are  in   our  sight — we   have   no 

Sunshine  and  shower  be  with  you,  bud  and 
bell !  [sought  ; 

For  two  months  now  in  vain  we  shall  be 
We  leave  you  here  in  solitude  to  dwell 
With  these  our  latest  gifts  of  tender  thought ; 
Thou,    like   the    morning,    in    thy  saffron 
coat,  [well ! 

Bright  gowan,  and  marsh-marigold,  fare- 
Whom    from   the  borders  of  the  lake  we 

brought, 
And  placed  together  near  our  rocky  well. 

We  go  for  one  to  whom  ye  will  be-  dear  ; 
And  she  will  prize  this  bower,  this  Indian 

shed, 
Our  own  contrivance,  building  without  peer! 
A  gentle  maid,  whose  heart  is  lowly  bred, 
Whose  pleasures  are  in  wild  fields  gathered, 
With  joyousness,    and  with    a   thoughtful 

cheer, 
Will  come  to  you  ;  to  you  herself  will  wed  — 
And  love  the  blessed  life  that  we  lead  herr 

Dear  spot  !   which  we  have  watched  with 

tender  heed,  [blown 

Bringing  thee  chosen  plants  and  blossoms 
Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and 

weed, 
Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own, 
Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known  ; 
Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  nature's  child 

indeed , 
Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone, 
Hast    taken   gifts   which    thou   dost   little 

need. 

And   oh,    most   constant,    yet   most    fickle 
place,  [dost  show 

That   hast  thy   wayward  moods,    as   thou 
To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face  ; 
Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost 
know/  [them  go!" 

And  say'st  when  we  forsake  thee,  "  Let 
Thou  easy-hearted  thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and   flowers,   till   we  return  be 

slow, 
And  travel  with  the  year  at  a  soft  pace. 

Help  us  to  tell  her  tales  of  years  gone  by, 
And  this  sweet  spring  the  best  beloved  and 

best. 
Joy  will  be  flown  in  its  mortality  ; 
Something  must  stay  to  tell  us  of  the  rest. 


Here,  thronged  with  primroses,   the  steep 

rock's  breast 
Glittered  at  evening  like  a  starry  sky; 
And  in   this  bush  our  sparrow   built   her 

nest, 
Of  which  I  sung  one  song  that  will  not  die. 

Oh,  happy  garden  !  whose  seclusion  deep 
Hath  been  so  friendly  to  industrious  hours; 
And  to  soft  slumbers,  that  did  gently  steep 
Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dream-  of 

flowers,  [bowers; 

And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy 
Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap, 
And,  coming   back  with  her  who  will  be 

ours, 
Into  thy  bosom  we  again  shall  creep. 


STANZAS 


WRITTEN  IN  MY  POCKET-COPY  OF  THOM- 
SON'S "  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE." 

Within  our  happy  castle  there  dwelt  one 
Whom  without  blame  I  may  not  overlook; 
For  never  sun  on  living  creature  shone 
Who  more  devout  enjoyment  with  us  took: 
Here  on  his  hours  he  hung  as  on  a  beok; 
On  his  own  time  here  would  he  float  away, 
As  doth  a  fly  upon  a  summer  brook; 
But  go  to-morrow— or  belike  to-day — 
Seek  for  him,— he  is  fled;  and  whither  none 
can  say. 

Thus   often  would  he  leave  our  peaceful 

home, 
And  find  elsewhere  his  business  or  delight; 
Out  of  our  valley's  limits  did  he  roam: 
Full  many  a  time,  upon  a  stormy  night, 
His   voice  came  to  us  from  the  neighbour- 
ing height: 
Oft  did  we  see  him  driving  full  in  view 
At    mid-day   when  the  sun    was    shining 

bright; 
What  ill  was  on  him,  what  he  had  to  do, 
A  mighty  wonder  bred  among   our  quie 
crew. 

Ah!  piteous  sight  it  was  to  see  this  man 
When   he   came  back    to   us,  a   withered 

flower, — 
Or  like  a  sinful  creature,  pale  and  wan. 
Down  would  he  sit;  and  without  strength 

or  power  [hour ; 

Look  at  the  common  grass  from  hour  to 
And  oftentimes,  how  long  I  fear  to  say, 
P 


40 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS 


Where    apple-trees   in   blossom    made    a 

bower, 
Retired  in  that  sunshiny  shade  he  lay: 
And,  like  a  naked    Indian,    slept  himself 

away. 

Great  wonder  to  our  gentle  tribe  it  was 
Whenever  from  our  valley  he  withdrew; 
For  happier  soul  no  living  creature  has 
Than    he  had,  being   here   the  long   day 

through. 
Some  thought  he  was  a  lover,  and  did  woo: 
Some  thought  far  worse  of  him,  and  judged 

him  wrong:  [to; 

Rut  verse  was  what  he  had  been   wedded 
And  his    own  mind  did    like    a    tempest 

strong 
Come   to   him  thus,  and  drove  the  weary 

wight  along. 

With  him  there  often  walked  in  friendly 

guise, 
Or  lay  upon  the  moss  by  brook  or  tree, 
A  noticeable  man  with  large  gray  eyes, 
And  a  pale  face  that  seemed  undoubtedly 
As  if  a  blooming  face  it  ought  to  be; 
Heavy  his  low-hung  lip  did  oft  appear 
Deprest  by  weight  of  musing  phantasy; 
Profound    his    forehead  was,    though   not 

severe;  [ness  here. 

Yet  some  did  think  that  he  had  little  busi- 

Sweet  heaven  forefend!  his  was  a  lawful 

right; 
Noisy  he  was,  and  gamesome  as  a  boy; 
His  limbs  w-ould  toss  about  him  with  de- 
light [annoy. 
Like  branches  when  strong  winds  the  trees 
Nor  lacked  his  calmer  hours  device  or  toy 
To  banish  listlessness  and  irksome  care; 
He  would  have  taught  you  how  you  might 

employ 
Yourself;  and  many  did  to  him  repair, — 
And,  certes,  not  in  vain;  he  had  inventions 


Expedients,  too,  of  simplest  sort  he  tried: 
Long  blades  of  grass,  plucked  round  him 

as  he  lay, 
Made — to  his  ear  attentively  applied — 
A  pipe  on  which  the  wind  w-ould deftly  play; 
Glasses  he  had,  tha<  little  things  display, 
The  beetle  panoplied  in  gems  and  gold, 
A  mailed  angel  on  a  battle  day; 
The  mysteries  that  cups  of  flowers  infold, 
And  all  the  gorgeous  sights  which  fairies 

do  behold. 


He  would  entice  that  other  man  to  hear 

His  music,  and  to  view  his  imagery: 

And,  sooth,  these  two  did  love  each  other 

dear, 
As  far  as  love  in  such  a  place  could  be; 
There  did  they  dwell— from  earthly  labour 

free, 
As  happy  spirits  as  were  ever  seen ; 
If  but  a  bird,  to  keep  them  company, 
Or  butterfly  sate  down,  they  were,  I  ween. 
As   pleased   as  if  the  same   had   been   a 

maiden  queen. 


LOUISA. 

I  MET  Louisa  in  the  shade; 

And  having  seen  that  lovely  maid, 

Why  should  I  fear  to  say 

That  she  is  ruddy,  fleet,  and  strong; 

And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along, 

Like  rivulets  in  May? 

And  she  hath  smiles  to  earth  unknown; 
Smiles,  that  with  motion  of  their  own 
Do  spread,  and  sink,  and  rise; 
That  come  and  go  with  endless  play, 
And  ever,  as  they  pass  away, 
Are  hidden  in  her  eyes. 

She  loves  her  fire,  her  cottage-home; 
Yet  o'er  the  moorland  will  she  roam 
In  weather  rough  and  bleak; 
And,  when  against  the  wind  she  strains, 
Oh,  might  I  kiss  the  mountain  rains, 
That  sparkle  on  her  cheek! 

Take  all  that's  mine  "  beneath  the  moon, 

If  I  with  her  but  half  a  noon 

May  sit  beneath  the  walls 

Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook, 

When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 

To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 


Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known: 
And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befel. 

When  she  I  loved  was  strong  and  gay: 
And  like  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 
Beneath  the  evening  moon. 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye, 
All  over  the  wide  lea  ; 


POEMS  FOUNLED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


41 


My  horse  trudged  on— and  we  drew  nigh 
Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  readied  the  orchard  plot  ; 
And  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 
Towards  the  roof  of  Lucy's  cot 
The  moon  descended  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 
Kind  nature's  gentlest  boon  ! 
And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 
On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on  ;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped  : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof, 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  lover's  head  !— 

"Oh,  mercy  !"  to  myself  I  cried, 

"If  Lucy  should  be  dead  !" 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


I  travelled  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 
Vor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 
To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 


Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played  ; 

And  thine  is  too  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 


ERE  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew 

Had  mingled  tears  of  thine, 
I  grieved,  fond  youth  !  that  thou  shoulds 
sue 

To  haughty  Geraldine. 

Immoveable  by  generous  sighs, 

She  glories  in  a  train 
Who  drag,  beneath  our  native  skies, 

An  oriental  chain. 

Pine  not  like  them  with  arms  across, 

Forgetting  in  thy  care 
How  the  fast-rooted  trees  can  toss 

Their  branches  in  mid  air. 

The  humblest  rivulet  will  take 

Its  own  wild  liberties  ; 
And,  every  day,  the  imprisoned  lake 

Is  flowing  in  the  breeze. 

Then,  crouch  no  more  on  suppliant  knee, 
But  scorn  with  scorn  outbrave  ; 

A  Briton,  even  in  love,  should  be 
A  subject,  not  a  slave  ! 


TO  . 

Look  at  the  fate  of  summer  flowers, 
!  Which  blow  at  daybreak,  droop  ere  even- 
song ;  [that  ours, 
And,   grieved  for  their  brief  date,   confess 
Measured  by  what  we  are  and  ought  to  be, 
Measured  by  all  that  trembling  we  foresee, 
Is  not  so  long  ! 

If  human  life  dp  pass  away, 
Perishing  yet  more  swiftly  than  the  flower 
Whose  frail  existence  is  but  of  a  day  ; 
What  space  hath  virgin's  beauty  to  disclose 
Her  sweets,  and  triumph  o'er  the  breathing 
Not  even  an  hour  !  |_rose  ! 

The  deepest  grove  whose  foliage  hid 
The  happiest  lovers  Arcady  might  boast, 
Could  not  the   entrance  of  this   thought 

forbid  : 
Oh,  be  thou  wise  as  they,  soul-gifted  maid  ! 
Nor  rate  too  high  what  must  so  quickly 
So  soon  be  lost.  [fade, 


42 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Then  shall  love  teach  some  virtuous  youth 
"  To  draw  out  of  the  object  of  his  eyes," 
The  whilst  on  thee  they  gaze  in  simple  truth, 
Hues  more  exalted,  "  a  refined  form," 
That  dreads  not  age,  nor  suffers  from  the 
And  never  dies.  [worm, 


'Tis  said  that  some  have  died  for  love  : 
And  here  and  there  a  church-yard  grave  is 

found 
In  the  cold  North's  unhallowed  ground,— 
Because  the   wretched   man   himself  had 

slain, 
His  love  was  such  a  grievous  pain. 
And  there  is  one  whom  I  five  years  have 
He  dwells  alone  [known  ; 

Upon  Helvellvn's  side  : 

He  loved the  pretty  Barbara  died, 

And  thus  he  makes  his  moan  : 

Three  years  had  Barbara  in  her  grave  been 

When  thus  his  moan  he  made—  [laid 

"Oh,   move,   thou  cottage,   from  behind 

that  oak  ! 
Or  let  the  aged  tree  uprooted  lie, 
That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 
May  mount  into  the  sky  ! 
The  clouds  pass  on  ;  they  from  the  heavens 

depart  : 
I  look— the  sky  is  empty  space  ; 
I  know  not  what  I  trace  ;  [my  heart. 

But  when  I  cease  to  look,  my  hand  is  on 

"  Oh  !  what  a  weight  is  in  these  shades? 
Ye  leaves,  [prest ! 

When    will  that   dying   murmur  be   sup- 
Your  sound  my  heart  of  peace  bereaves, 
It  robs  my  heart  of  rest.  [and  free, 

Thou  thrush,  that  singest  loud— and  loud 
Into  yon  row  of  willows  flit, 
Upon  that  alder  sit ;  [tree. 

Or  sing  another  song,  or  choose  another 

"  Roll  back,  sweet  rill!  back  to  thy  moun- 
tain bounds, 
And  there  for  ever  be  thy  waters  chained  ! 
For  thou  dost  haunt  the  air  with  sounds 
That  cannot  be  sustained  ;  [bough 

If   still   beneath    that    pine-tree's    ragged 
Headlong  yon  waterfall  must  come, 
Oh,  let  it  then  be  dumb  ! — 
Be  any  thing,  sweet  rill,   but  that  which 
thou  art  now. 

'•Thou  eglantine,  whose  arch  so  proudly 

towers,  [vale. 

Even  like  a   rainbow    spanning  half   the 


Thou  one  fair  shrub,  oh  !  shed  thy  flowers, 
And  stir  not  in  the  gale. 
For  thus  to  see  thee  nodding  in  the  air, — 
To  see  thy  arch  thus  stretch  and  bend, 
Thus  rise  and  thus  descend, — 
Disturbs  me  till  the  sight  is  more  than  I 
can  bear." 

The  man  who  makes  this  feverish  com- 
plaint 
Is  one  of  giant  stature,  who  could  dance 
Equipped  from  head  to  foot  in  iron  mail. 
Ah  gentle  love  !  if  ever  thought  was  thine 
To  store  up  kindred  hours  for  me,  thy  face 
Turn  from  me,  gentle  love  !  nor  let  me  walk 
Within  the  sound  of  Emma's  voice,  or  know 
Such  happiness  as  I  have  known  to-day. 


A  COMPLAINT. 

There  is  a  change — and  I  am  poor  ; 
Your  love  hath  been,  nor  long  ago, 
A  fountain  at  my  fond  heart's  door, 
Whose  only  business  was  to  flow  ; 
And  flow  it  did  ;  not  taking  heed 
Of  its  own  bounty,  or  my  need. 

What  happy  moments  did  I  count ! 
Blest  was  I  then  all  bliss  above  ! 
Now,  for  this  consecrated  fount 
Of  murmuring,  sparkling,  living  love, 
What  have  I?  shall  I  dare  to  tell? 
A  comfortless  and  hidden  well. 

A  well  of  love — it  may  be  deep — 

I  trust  it  is, — and  never  dry  : 

What  matter  ?  if  the  waters  sleep 

In  silence  and  obscurity. 

Such  change,  and  at  the  very  door 

Of  my  fond  heart,  hath  made  ine  poor. 


TO  . 

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing, 
Bright  suns  without  a  spot ; 

But  thou  art  no  such  perfect  thing  ; 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  not ! 

Such  if  thou  wert  in  all  men's  view, 

A  universal  show, 
What  would  my  fancy  have  to  do 

My  feelings  to  bestow? 

The  world  denies  that  thou  art  fair ; 

So,  Mary,  let  it  be 
If  nought  in  loveliness  compare 

Witli  what  thou  art  to  me. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


a 


True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats, 

Whose  veil  is  unreraoved 
Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats, 

And  the  lover  is  beloved. 


How  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expanse  ! 
How  bright  that  heaven-directed  glance  ! 
Waft  her  to  glory,  winged  powers, 
Ere  sorrow  be  renewed, 
And  intercourse  with  mortal  hours 
Bring  back  a  humbler  mood  ! 
So  looked  Cecilia  when  she  drew 
\n  angel  from  his  station  ; 
so  looked — not  ceasing  to  pursue 
'■  I. -r  tuneful  adoration! 

But  hand  and  voice  alike  are  still  ; 

No  sound  hen  sweeps  away  the  will 

That  gave  it  birth  ;— in  service  meek 

One  upright  arm  sustains  the  cheek, 

And  one  across  the  bosom  lies — 

That  rose,  and  now  forgets  to  rise, 

Subdued  by  breathless  harmonies 

Of  meditative  feeling ; 

Mule  strains  from  worlds  beyond  the  skies, 

Through  the  pure  light  of  female  eyes 

Their  sanctity  revealing  ! 


TO  . 

Oh,    dearer  far  than  light   and    life  are 

dear, 
Full  oft  our  human  foresight  I  deplore  ; 
Trembling,  through  my  unworthiness,  with 

fear  [no  more  ! 

That  friends,  by  death  disjoined,  may  meet 

Misgivings,  hard  to  vanquish  or  control, 
Mix  with  the  day,  and  cross  the  hour  of  rest; 
While  all  the  future,  foi  thy  purer  soul, 
With  "sober  certainties  "  of  love  is  blest. 

If  a  faint  sigh,  not  meant  for  human  ear, 
Tell  that  these  words  thy  humbleness  offend, 
Cherish  me  still— else  faltering  in  the  rear 
Of  a  steep  march  ;  uphold  me  to  the  end. 

Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek, 
And  love  is  dutiful  in  thought  and  deed  ; 
Through  thee  communion  with  that  love  I 

seek  ; 
The  faith  Heaven  strengthens  where  He 

moulds  the  creed. 


LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF 
SCOTS 

ON   THE   EVE   OF   A   NEW   YEAR. 

Smile  of  the  moon  !— for  so  I  name 

That  silent  greeting  from  abov°  ; 

A  gentle  flash  of  light  that  came 

From  her  whom  drooping  captives  love  ; 

Or  art  thou  of  still  higher  birth  ? 

Thou  that  didst  part  the  clouds  of  earth, 

My  torpor  to  reprove  ! 

Bright  boon  of  pitying  Heaven — alas  ! 
I  may  not  trust  thy  placid  cheer  ! 
Pondering  that  lime  to-night  will  pass 
The  threshold  of  another  year  ; 
For  years  to  me  are  sad  and  dull  ; 
My  very  moments  are  too  full 
Of  hopelessness  and  fear. 

And  yet,  the  soul-awakening  gleam, 
That  struck  perchance  the  farthest  con? 
Of  Scotland's  rocky  wilds,  did  seem 
To  visit  me,  and  me  alone  ; 
Me,  unapproached  by  any  friend, 
Save  those  who  to  my  sorrows  lend 
Tears  due  unto  their  own. 

To-night,  the  church-tower  bells  will  rin  j 
Through  these  wide  realms  a  festive  peal 
To  the  new  year  a  welcoming  ; 
A  tuneful  offering  for  the  weal 
Of  happy  millions  lulled  in  sleep  ; 
While  I  am  forced  to  watch  and  weep, 
By  wounds  that  may  not  heal. 

Born  all  too  high,  by  wedlock  raised 
Still  higher — to  be  cast  thus  low  ! 
Would  that  mine  eyes  had  never  gazed 
On  aught  of  more  ambitious  show 
Than  the  sweet  flowerets  of  the  fields  ! 
It  is  my  royal  state  that  yields 
This  bitterness  of  woe. 

Yet  how  ?— for  I,  if  there  be  truth 
In  the  world's  voice,  was  passing  fair  , 
And  beauty,  for  confiding  youth, 
Those  shocks  of  passion  can  prepare 
That  kill  the  bloom  before  its  time, 
And  blanch,  without  the  owner's  crime, 
The  most  resplendent  hair. 

Unblest  distinction  !  showered  on  me 
To  bind  a  lingering  life  in  chains  :— 
All  that  could  quit  my  grasp,  or  flee, 
Is  gone  ; — but  not  the  subtle  stains 
Fixed  in  the  spirit  ;  for  even  here 
Can  I  be  proud  that  jealous  fear 
Of  what  I  was  remain* 


u 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  woman  rules  my  prison's  key  ; 
A  sister  queen,  against  the  bent 
Of  law  and  holiest  sympathy, 
Detains  me,  doubtful  of  the  event ; 
Great  God,  who  feel'st  for  my  distress, 
My  thoughts  are  all  that  I  possess, 
Ch,  keep  them  innocent  ! 

Farewell  desire  of  human  aid, 
Which  abject  mortals  vainly  court, 
By  friends  deceived,  by  foes  betrayed, 
Of  fears  the  prey,  of  hopes  the  sport  ; 
Nought  but  the  world-redeeming  cross 
Is  able  to  supply  my  loss, 
My  burthen  to  support. 

Hark  !  the  death-note  of  the  year 
Sounded  by  the  castle  clock  ! 
From  her  sunk  eyes  a  stagnant  tear 
Stole  /orth,  unsettled  by  the  shock  ; 
But  oft  the  woods  renewed  their  green, 
Ere  the  tired  head  of  Scotland's  queen 
Reposed  upon  the  block  ! 


•    THE  COMPLAINT 

OF   A   FORSAKEN    INDIAN   WOMAN. 

[When  a  Northern  Indian,  from  sickness,  is  un- 
able to  continue  his  journey  with  his  compa- 
nions, he  is  left  behind,  covered  over  with 
deer-skins,  and  is  supplied  with  water,  food, 
and  fuel,  if  the  situation  of  the  place  will 
afford  it.  He  is  informed  of  the  track  which 
his  companions  intend  to  pursue,  and  if  he  is 
unable  to  follow  or  overtake  them,  he  perishes 
alone  in  the  desert,  unless  he  should  have  the 
good  fortune  to  fall  in  with  some  other  tribes 
of  Indians.  The  females  are  equally,  or  still 
more,  exposed  to  the  same  fate.  See  that 
very  interesting  work,  Hearne's  "Journey 
from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  Northern  Ocean." 
In  the  high  northern  latitudes,  as  the  same 
writer  informs  us,  when  the  northern  lights 
vary  their  position  in  the  air,  they  make  a 
rustling  and  a  crackling  noise,  as  alluded  to  in 
the  following  poem.] 

Jefore  I  see  another  day, 

Oh,  let  my  body  die  away  ! 

In  sleep  I  heard  the  northern  gleams  ; 

The  stars  were  mingled  with  my  dreams  ; 

In  rustling  conflict  through  the  skies, 

I  heard,  I  saw  the  flashes  drive, 

,vnd  yet  they  are  upon  my  eyes, 

And  yet  I  am  alive  ; 

Before  I  see  another  day, 

Oh,  let  my  body  die  away  ! 


My  fire  is  dead  :  it  knew  no  pain  ; 

Yet  is  it  dead,  and  I  remain. 

All  stiff  with  ice  the  ashes  lie  ; 

And  they  are  dead,  and  I  will  die. 

When  I  was  well,  I  wished  to  live, 

For  clothes,  for  warmth,  for  food,  and  fire; 

But  they  to  me  no  joy  can  give, 

No  pleasure  now,  and  no  desire. 

Then  here  contented  will  I  lie  ! 

Alone  I  cannot  fear  to  die. 

Alas  !  ye  might  have  dragged  me  on 

Another  day,  a  single  one  ! 

Too  soon  I  yielded  to  despair  ; 

Why  did  ye  listen  to  my  prayer  ? 

When  ye  were  gone  my  limbs  were  stronger; 

And,  oh,  how  grievously  I  rue, 

That,  afterwards,  a  little  longer, 

My  friends,  I  did  not  follow  you  ? 

For  strong  and  without  pain  I  lay, 

My  friends,  when  ye  were  gone  away. 

My  child  !  they  gave  thee  to  another, 
A  woman  who  was  not  thy  mother. 
When  from  my  arms  my  babe  they  took, 
On  me  how  strangely  did  he  look  ! 
Through  his  whole  body  something  ran, 
A  most  strange  working  did  I  see  ; 
As  if  he  strove  to  be  a  man, 
That  he  might  pull  the  sledge  for  me. 
And    then    he    stretched    his   arms,   how 

wild? 
Oh,  mercy  !  like  a  helpless  child. 

My  little  joy  !  my  little  pride  ! 
In  two  days  more  I  must  have  died. 
Then  do  not  weep  and  grieve  for  me  ; 
I  feel  I  must  have  died  with  thee. 

0  wind,  that  o'er  my  head  art  flying 
The   way    my    friends    their    course    did 

bend, 

1  should  not  feel  the  pain  of  dying, 
Could  I  with  thee  a  message  send  ; 
Too  soon,  my  friends,  ye  went  away  ; 
For  I  had  many  things  to  say. 

I'll  follow  you  across  the  snow  ; 
Ye  travel  heavily  and  slow  ; 
In  spite  of  all  my  weary  pain 
I'll  look  upon  your  tents  again. 
My  fire  is  dead,  and  snowy  white 
The  water  which  beside  it  stood  ; 
The  wolf  has  come  to  me  to-night,. 
And  he  has  stolen  away  my  food. 
For  ever  left  alone  am  I, 
Then  wherefore  should  I  fear  to  die," 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIUXS. 


Al 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  FLOCK. 

In  distant  countries  have  I  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  roads  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway,  I  met ; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came, 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet. 
Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad  ; 
And  in  his  arms  a  lamb  he  had. 

He  saw  me,  and  he  turned  aside, 

As  if  he  wished  himself  to  hide: 

Then  with  his  coat  he  made  essay 

To  wipe  those  briny  tears  away. 

I  followed  him,  and  said,  "  My  friend, 

What  ails  you?  wherefore  weep  you  so?" 

"  Shame  on  me,  sir !  this  lusty  lamb, 

He  makes  my  tears  to  flow. 

To-day  I  fetched  him  from  the  rock  ; 

He  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock. 

"When  I  was  young,  a  single  man, 

And  after  youthful  follies  ran, 

Though  little  given  to  care  and  thought, 

Vet,  so  it  was,  a  ewe  I  bought ; 

And  other  sheep  from  her  I  raised, 

As  healthy  sheep  as  you  might  see  ; 

And  then  I  married,  and  was  rich 

As  I  could  wish  to  be  ; 

Of  sheep  I  numbered  a  full  score, 

And  every  year  increased  my  store. 

"  Year  after  year  my  stock  it  grew  ; 

And  from  this  cne,  this  single  ewe, 

Full  fifty  comely  sheep  I  raised, 

As  sweet  a  flock  as  ever  grazed  ! 

Upon  the  mountain  did  they  feed, 

They  throve,  and  we  at  home  did  thrive. 

This  lusty  lamb  of  all  my  store 

Is  all  that  is  alive  ; 

And  now  I  care  not  if  we  die, 

And  perish  all  of  poverty. 

"Six  children,  sir  !  had  I  to  feed ; 

Hard  labour  in  a  time  of  need! 

My  pride  was  tamed,  and  in  our  grief 

I  of  the  parish  asked  relief. 

They  said,  I  was  a  wealthy  man  ; 

My  sheep  upon  the  mountain  fed, 

And  it  was  fit  that  thence  I  took 

Whereof  to  buy  us  bread. 

'  Do  this :  how  can  we  give  to  you,' 

They  cried,  '  vbat  to  the  poor  is  due  ?' 


"  I  sold  a  sheep,  as  they  had  said, 
And  bought  my  little  children  bread, 
And  they  were  healthy  with  their  food  ; 
For  me — it  never  did  me  good. 
A  woeful  time  it  was  for  me, 
To  see  the  end  of  all  my  gains, 
The  pretty  flock  which  I  had  reared 
With  all  my  care  and  pains, 
To  see  it  melt  like  snow  away  ! 
For  me  it  was  a  woeful  day. 

"  Another  still!  and  still  another  ! 

A  little  lamb,  and  then  its  mother  ! 

It  was  a  vein  that  never  stopped — 

Like    blood-drops    from    my   heart    they 

dropped. 
Till  thirty  were  not  left  alive. 
They  dwindled,  dwindled,  one  by  one* 
And  I  may  say,  that  many  a  time 
I  wished  they  all  were  gone — 
Reckless  of  what  might  come  at  last 
Were  but  the  bitter  struggle  past. 

"  To  wicked  deeds  I  was  inclined, 
And  wicked  fancies  crossed  my  mind  ; 
And  every  man  I  chanced  to  see, 
I  thought  he  knew  some  ill  of  me. 
No  peace,  no  comfort  could  I  find, 
No  ease,  within  doors  or  without  ; 
And  crazily  and  wearily 
I  went  my  work  about, 
Bent  oftentimes  to  flee  from  home, 
And   hide   my   head   where  wild  beasts 
roam. 

"Sir,  'twas  a  precious  flock  to  me, 

As  dear  as  my  own  children  be  ; 

For  daily  with  my  growing  store 

I  loved  my  children  more  and  more. 

Alas  !  it  was  an  evil  time  ; 

God  cursed  me  in  my  sore  distress; 

I  prayed,  yet  every  day  I  thought 

I  loved  my  children  less  ; 

And  every  week,  and  every  day, 

My  flock  it  seemed  to  melt  away. 

"  They  dwindled,  sir,  sad  sight  to  see! 

From  ten  to  five,  from  five  to  three- 

A  lamb,  a  wether,  and  a  ewe  ; 

And  then  at  last  from  three  to  two  ; 

And,  of  my  fifty,  yesterday 

I  had  but  only  one  : 

And  here  it  lies  upon  my  arm, 

Alas  !  and  I  have  none  ; — 

To-day  I  fetched  it  from  the  rock  ; 

It  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock." 


46 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


REPENTANCE. 

A  PASTOKAL   BALLAD. 

The  fields  which  with  covetous  spirit  we 
sold,  [day, 

Those  beautiful  fields,  the  delight  of  the 

Would  have  brought  us  more  good  than  a 
burthen  of  gold,  [they. 

Could  we  but  have  been  as  contented  as 

When  the  troublesome  tempter  beset  us, 
said  I,  [grasped  in  his  hand  ; 

"  Let  him  come  with   his  purse   proudly 
But,  Allan,  be  true  to  me,  Allan, — we'll  die 
Before   he   shall  go  with  an  inch   of  the 
land!" 

There  dwelt  we,  as  happy  as  birds  in  their 

bowers  ; 
Unfettered  as  bees  that  in  gardens  abide; 
We  could  do  what  we  chose  with  the  land, 

it  was  ours  ;  [by  its  side. 

And  for  us  the  brook  murmured  that  ran 

But  now  we  are  strangers,  go  early  or  late; 
And  often,  like  one  overburdened  with  sin, 
With   my  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  half- 
opened  gate, 
I  look  at  the  fields — but  I  cannot  go  in  ! 

When  I  walk  by  the  hedge  on  a  bright 
summer's  day,  [tree, 

Or  sit  in  the  shade  of  my  grandfather's 
A  stern  face  it  puts  on,  as  if  ready  to  say, 
"  What  ails  you,  that  you  must  come  creep- 
ing to  me  ?" 

With  our  pastures  about  us,  we  could  not 

be  sad  ; 
Our  comfort  was  near  if  we  ever  were  crost, 
But  the  comfort,  the  blessings,  and  wealth 

that  we  had,  [was  lost. 

We  slighted  them  all, — and  our  birthright 

Oh,  ill-judging  sire  of  an  innocent  son, 
Who  must  now  be  a  wanderer! — but  peace 

to  that  strain!  [was  done, 

Think  of  evening's  repose  when  our  labour 
The  Sabbath's  return — and  its  leisure's  soft 

chain  ! 

And  in  sickness,  if  night  had  been  sparing 
of  sleep,  [stood, 

ifow  cheerful,  at  sunrise,  the  hill  where  I 

Looking  down  on  the  kine,  and  our  trea- 
sure of  sheep  [in  my  blood! 

That  besprinkled  the  field — 'twas  like  youth 


Now  I  cleave  to  the  house,  and  am  dull  as 
a  snail  ;  [a  sigh, 

And,  oftentimes,  hear  the  church-bell  with 

That  follows  the  thought — We've  no  land 
in  the  vale,  [lie  ! 

Save  six  feet  of  earth  where  our  forefathers 


THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh,  find  me,  prosperons  or  undone  ! 
Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same, 
That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name? 

Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child  ; 
To  have  despaired,  and  have  believed, 
And  be  for  evermore  beguiled  ; 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss ! 
I  catch  at  them  and  then  I  miss  ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ? 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 
An  object  beauteous  to  behold; 
Well  born,  well  bred;  I  sent  him  forth 
Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold: 
If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace, 
As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base; 
And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young  one  dream, 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  hath  even  his  wildest  scream, 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess  : 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress  ; 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffered  long 
From  that  ill  thought;  and,  being  blind, 
Said,  "  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong: 
Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed:"  and  that  is  true; 
I've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor,    l 
Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 
Oh!  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door  ; 
Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain  : 
I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes; 
And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise, 
And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


47 


Alas!  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight; 
They  mount,  how  short  a  voyage  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight! 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan, 
Maimed,  mangled  by  inhuman  men; 
Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 
Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep, 
Thou,  thou,  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 
An  incommnnicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts  ;  but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me:— 'tis  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 
Betwixt  the  living  and  the  dead; 
For,  surely,  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night, 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds; 
I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass; 
The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as  tliey  pass: 
I  question  things  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind  ; 
And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Bevond  participation  lie 

My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 

If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh, 

They  pity  me  and  not  my  grief. 

Then  come  to  me,  my  son,  or  send 

Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  ; 

I  haTe  no  other  earthly  friend. 


THE  COTTAGER  TO  HER  INFANT. 

BY   A   FEMALE    FRIEND. 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long, 
The  north  wind  sings  a  doleful  song; 
Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast; 
All  merry  things  are  now  at  rest, 
Save  thee,  my  pretty  love  ! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth, 
The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth; 
There's  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  mouse, 
Then  why  so  busy  thou  ? 

Nay!  start  not  at  that  sparkling  light; 
'Tis  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 


On  the  window-pane  bedropped  with  rain- 
Then,  little  darlim  !  sleep  again  ! 
And  wake  when  it  is  day. 


'  THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER. 

One  morning  (raw  it  was  and  wet, 
A  foggy  day  in  winter  time) 
A  woman  on  the  road  I  met, 
Not  old,  though  something  past  her  prime: 
Majestic  in  her  person,  tall  and  straight; 
And  like  a  Roman   matron's  was  her  mien 
and  gait. 

The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead; 
Old  times,  thought  I,  are  breathing  there; 
Proud  was  I  that  my  country  bad 
Such  strength,  a  dignity  so  fair: 
She  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate; 
I  looked   at  her  again,   nor  did  my  pride 
abate. 

When  from  those  lofty  thoughts  I  woke, 
"  What  treasure,"  said  I,  "do  you  bear 
Beneath  the  covert  of  your  cloak, 
Protected  from  the  cold  damp  air  ?" 
She   answered,   soon   as  she  the  question 

heard, 
"A  simple  burden,    sir,    a   little   singing- 
bird. 

"  I  had  a  son,— the  waves  might  roar, 
He  feared  them  not,  a  sailor  gay! 
But  he  will  cross  the  deep  no  more  : 
In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away: 
And  I  have  travelled  weary  miles  to  see 
If  aught  which  he  had  owned   might  stilJ 
remain  for  me. 

"  The  bird  and  cage  they  both  were  hi  : 

'Twas  my  son's  bird;  and  neat  and  trim 

He  kept  it:  many  voyages 

This  singing-bird  had  gone  with  him  ; 

When  last  he  sailed,  he  left  the  bird  be- 
hind: 

From  bodings,  as  might  be,  that  hung  upon 
his  mind. 

"  He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 
Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed, 
And  pipe  its  song  in  safety;— there 
I  found  it  when  my  son  was  dead; 
And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  little  wit! 
I  bear  it  with  me,  sir!  he  took  so  much  de- 
light in  it." 


48 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  CHILDLESS    FATHER. 

"Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and 
away!  [will  stay; 

Not  a  soul   in    the   village   this   morning 

The  hare  has  just  started  from  Hamilton's 
grounds,  [hounds." 

And  Skiddaw  is  glad  with  the  cry  of  the 

Of  coats  and  of  jackets  gray,  scarlet,  and 
green,  [were  seen; 

On  the  slopes  of  the  pastures  all  colours 

With  their  comely  blue  aprons,  and  caps 
white  as  snow, 

The  girls  on  the  hills  made  a  holiday  show. 

Fresh  sprigs  of  green  box-wood,  not  six 
months  before,  [door; 

Filled   the    funeral    basin*    at    Timothy's 

A  coffin  through  Timothy's  threshold  had 
past;  [his  last. 

One  child  did  it  bear,  and  that  child  was 

Now  fast  up  the  dell  came  the  noise  and 
the  fray,  [away! 

The  horse  and  the  horn,  and  thehark!  hark 
Did  Timothy  took  up  his  staff,  and  he  shut 
With  a  leisurely  motion  the  door  of  his 
hut. 

Perhaps  to  himself  at  that  moment  he  said, 
' '  The  key  I  must  take,    for  my  Ellen  is 

dead."  [speak, 

But  of  this  in  my  ears  not  a  word  did  he 
And  he  went  to  the  chase  with  a  tear  on 

his  cheek. 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

Once  in  a  lonely  hamlet  I  sojourned, 
In  which  a  lady  driven  from   France  did 
dwell;  [mourned, 

The  big  and  lesser  griefs,  with  which  she 
'.n  friendship,  she  to  me  would  often  tell. 

fhis  lady,  dwelling  upon  English  ground, 
Where  she  was  childless,  daily  would  repair 
To    a  poor   neighbouring    cottage;   as    I 
found,  [there. 

For  sake  of  a  young  child  whose  home  was 


*  In  several  parts  of  the  north  of  England 
when  a  funeral  takes  place,  a  basin  full  of  sprigs 
of  boxwood  is  placed  al  the  door  of  the  house 
from  which  the  coffin  is  taken  up,  and  each  per- 
son who  attends  the  funeral  ordinarily  takes  a 
sprig  of  this  boxwood,  and  throws  it  into  the  grave 
of  the  deceased. 


Once,    having   seen  her    take   with   fond 

embrace 
This  infant  to  herself,  I  framed  a  lay, 
Endeavouring,    in   my  native    tongue,   to 

trace  [say: 

Such  things  as  she  unto  the  child  might 
And   thus,  from  what  I  knew,  had  heard, 

and  guessed,  [pressed. 

My   song    the   workings  of   her  heart  ex- 

"  Dear  babe,  thou  daughter  of  another, 

One  moment  let  me  be  thy  mother  !        / 

An  infant's  face  and  looks  are  thine, 

And  sure  a  mother's  heart  is  mine: 

Th>  own  dear  mother's  far  away, 

At  labour  in  the  harvest-field: 

Thy  little  sister  is  at  play; 

What  warmth,  what  comfort  would  it  yield 

To  my  poor  heart,  if  thou  wouldst  be 

One  little  hour  a  child  to  me  ! 

' '  Across  the  waters  I  am  come. 
And  I  have  left  a  babe  at  home  : 
A  long,  long  way  of  land  and  sea  ! 
Come  to  me — I'm  no  enemy: 
I  am  the  same  who  at  thy  side 
Sate  yesterday,  and  made  a  nest 
For  thee,  sweet  baby! — thou  hast  tried, 
Thou  know'st  the  pillow  of  my  breast  ; 
Good,  good  art  thou  ; — alas  to  me 
Far  more  than  I  can  be  to  thee. 

"  Here,  little  darling,  dost  thou  lie  ; 

An  infant  thou,  a  mother  I  ! 

Mine  wilt  thou  be,  thou  hast  no  fears  ; 

Mine  art  thou — spite  of  these  my  tears. 

Alas  !  before  I  left  the  spot, 

My  baby  and  its  dwelling-place  ; 

The  nurse  said  to  me,  '  Tears  should  net 

Be  shed  upon  an  infant's  face, 

It  was  unlucky  ' — no,  no,  no  ; 

No  truth  is  in  them  who  say  so  ! 

"My  own  dear  little  one  will  sigh, 
Sweet  babe  !  and  they  will  let  him  die. 
'  He  pines,'  they'll  say,  ' it  is  his  doom. 
And  you  may  see  his  hour  is  come.' 
Oh!  had  he  but  thy  cheerful  smiles, 
Limbs  stout  as  thine,  and  lips  as  gay, 
Thy  looks,  thy  cunning,  and  thy  wiles, 
And  countenance  like  a  summer's  day, 
They  would  have  hopes  of  him — and  then 
I  should  behold  his  face  again  ! 

"  'Tis  gone — like  dreams  that  we  forget ; 
There  was  a  smile  or  two — yet — yet 
I  can  remember  them,  I  see 
The  smile  worth  all  the  world  to  me, 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


40 


Dear  baby!  I  must  lay  thee  down; 
Thou  troubles!  me  with  strange  alarms ; 
Smiles  hast  thou,  bright  ones  of  thy  own; 
I  cannot  keep  thee  in  my  arms, 
By  those  bewildering  glances  crost 
In  which  the  light  of  his  is  lost. 

"Oh!  how  I  love  thee!— we  still  stay 

Together  here  this  one  half  day. 

My  sister's  child,  who  bears  my  name, 

From  France  to  sheltering  England  came  ; 

She  with  her  mother  crossed  the  sea  ; 

The  babe  and  mother  near  me  dwell: 

My  darling,  she  is  not  to  me 

What  thou  art!  though  I  love  her  well: 

Rest,  little  stranger,  rest  thee  here! 

Never  was  any  child  more  dear! 

"  —I  cannot  help  it— ill  intent 
I've  none,  my  pretty  innocent! 
I  weep— I  know  they  do  thee  wrong, 
These  tears— and  my  poor  idle  tongue. 
Oh,  what  a  kiss  was  that!  my  cheek 
How  cold  it  is!  but  thou  art  good; 
Thine  eyes  are  on  me — they  would  speak, 
I  think,  to  help  me  if  they  could. 
Blessings  upon  that  soft,  warm  face, 
My  heart  again  is  in  its  place! 

"  While  thou  art  mine,  my  little  love, 
This  cannot  be  a  sorrowful  grove; 
Contentment,  hope,  and  mother's  glee, 
I  seem  to  find  them  all  in  thee: 
Here's  grass  to  play  with,  here  are  flowers 
I'll  call  thee  by  my  darling's  name  ; 
Thou  hast,  I  think,  a  look  of  ours, 
Thy  features  seem  to  me  the  same; 
His  little  sister  thou  shalt  be: 
And,  when  once  more  my  home  I  see, 
I'll  tell  him  many  tales  of  thee." 


VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA. 


'1  he  following  tale  was  written  as  an  episode  in 
a  work  from  which  its  length  may  perhaps 
exclude  it.  The  facts  are  true  ;  no  invention 
as  to  these  has  been  exercised,  as  none  was 
needed. 

Oh,  happy  time  of  youthful  lovers,  (thus 
My  story  may  begin,)  oh,  balmy  time, 
In  which  a  love-knot  on  a  lady's  brow- 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  star  in  heaven! 
To  such  inheritance  of  blessed  fancy 
(Fancy  that  sports  more  desperately  with 

minds 
Than  ever  fortune  hath  been  known  to  do) 


The  high-born  Vaudracour  was  brought, 

by  years 
Whose  progress  had  a  little  overstepped 
His   stripling   prime.       A   town   of  small 

repute, 
Among     the     vine-clad      mountains      of 
Auvergne,  [wooed  a  maid 

Was  the  youth's  birthplace.  There  he 
Who  heard  the  heart-felt  music  of  his  suit 
With  answering  vows.     Plebeian  was  the 

stock, 
Plebeian,  though  ingenuous,  the  stock, 
From  which  her  graces  and  her  honours 
sprung:  [youth, 

And  hence  the  father  of  the  enamoured 
With    haughty   indignation,    spurned   the 

thought 
Of  such  alliance.— From  their  cradles  up, 
With   but    a    step   between   their  several 
homes,  [strife 

Twins  had   they  been   in   pleasure;   after 
And  petty  quarrels,  had  grown  fond  again; 
Each  other's  advocate,  each  other's  stay; 
And  strangers  to  content  if  long  apart, 
Or  more  divided  than  a  sportive  pair 
Of  sea-fowl,  conscious  both  that  they  are 

hovering 
Within  the  eddy  of  a  common  blast, 
Or  hidden  only  by  the  concave  depth 
Of  neighbouring  billows  from  each  other's 
sight. 

Thus,  not  without  concurrence  of  an  age 
Unknown    to    memory,    was    an   earnest 

given, 
By  ready  nature,  for  a  life  of  love, 
For  endless  constancy,  and  placid  truth; 
But  whatsoe'er  of  such  rare  treasure  lay 
Reserved,  had  fate  permitted,  for  support 
Of  their  maturer  years,  his  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination; — he  beheld 
A  vision,  and  adored  the  thing  he  saw. 
Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought 
for  him.  [spring, 

Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the 
Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements, 
Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold; 
The   house  she   dwelt    in   was   a   sainted 

shrine: 
Her  chamber  window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portals  of  the  dawn;  all  paradise 
Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a  door, 
Let  itself  in  upon  him:  pathways,  walks, 
Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit 

sank, 
Surcharged,  withinhim, — overblest  to  move 
[  Beneath  a  sun  that  wakes  a  weary  world 


50 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares; 
A  man  too  happy  for  mortality! 

So  passed  the  time,  till,  whether  through 
effect 
Of  some  unguarded  moment  that  dissolved 
Virtuous  restraint— ah,   speak  it,   think    it 
_     not!  [saw 

Deem  rather  that  the  fervent  youth,  who 
So  many  bars  between  his  present  state 
And  the  dear  haven  where  he  wished  to  be 
In  honourable  wedlock  with  his  love, 
Was  in  his  judgment  tempted  to  decline 
To  perilous  weakness,  and  intrust  his  cause 
To  nature  for  a  happy  end  of  all; 
Deem  that   by  such  fond  hope  the  youth 
was  swayed,  r^d 

And  bear  with  their  transgression,  when   I 
That  Julia,  wanting  yet  the  name  of  wife, 
Carried  about  her  for  a  secret  grief 
The  promise  of  a  mother. 

To  conceal 
The  threatened  shame,  the  parents  of  the 

maid 
Found  means  to  hurry  her  away  by  night 
And  unforewarned,   that  in  some   distant 

spot 
She  might  remain  shrouded  in  privacy, 
Until  the  babe  was  born.     When  mor'nin°- 
came,  & 

The  lover,  thus  bereft,  stung  with  his  loss, 
And  all  uncertain  whither  he  should  turn,  ' 
Chafed  like  a  wild  beast   in  the  toils;  but 

soon 
Discovering  traces  of  the  fugitives, 
Their  steps  he  followed  to  the  maid's  re- 
treat. 
The  sequel  may  be  easily  divined,— 
Walks  to  and  fro— vvatchings  at  every  hour; 
And  the  fair  captive,    who,   whene'er  she 

may, 
Is  busy  at  her  casement  as  the  swallow 
Fluttering  its  pinions,  almost  within  reach, 
About  the  pendent  nest,  did  thus  espy 
Her  lover  !— thence  a  stolen  interview, 
Accomplished     under    friendly    shade    of 
night. 


In  the  unrelenting  east.— Through  all  hel 

courts 
The  vacant  city  slept ;  the  busy  winds, 
That  keep  no  certain  intervals  of  rest, 
Moved    not;   meanwhile   the  galaxy  dis- 
played 
Her  fires,  that  like  mysterious  pulses  beat 
Aloft ; — momentous  but  uneasy  bliss! 
To  their  full  hearts  the  universe  seemed 

hung 
On  that  brief  meeting's  slender  filament ! 

They  parted ;  and  the  generous  Vaudra- 
cour 
Reached  speedily  the  native  threshold,  bent 
On  making  (so  the  lovers  had  agreed) 
A  sacrifice  of  birthright  to  attain 
A  final  portion  from  his  father's  hand  ; 
Which  granted,  bride  and  bridegroom  then 

would  flee 
To  some  remote  and  solitary  place, 
Shady  as  night,  and  beautiful  as  heaven, 
Where  they  may  live,  with  no  one  to  behold 
Their  happiness,  or  to  disturb  their  love. 
But  now  of  this  no  whisper ;  not  the  less, 
If  ever  an  obtrusive  word  were  dropped  ' 
Touching  the  matter  of  his  passion,  still, 
In  his  stern  father's  hearing,  Vaudracouf 
Persisted  openly  that  death  alone 
Should  abrogate  his  human  privilege 
Divine,  of  swearing  everlasting  truth, 
Upon  the  altar,  to  the  maid  he  loved. 


I  pass  the  raptures  of  the  pair;— such 
theme 
Is,  by  innumerable  poets,  touched 
In  more  delightful  verse  than  skill  of  mine 
Could  fashion,  chiefly  by  that  darling  bard 
Who  told  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo, 
And  of  the  lark's  note  heard  before  its  time 
And  of  the  streaks  that  laced  the  severing 
clouds 


"You  shall  be  baffled  in  your  mad  intent 
If  there  be  justice  in  the  court  of  France," 
Muttered  the  father.— From   these  words 

the  youth 
Conceived  a  terror,— and,  by  night  or  day, 
Stirred    nowhere    without    weapons— that 

full  soon 
Found  dreadful  provocation  :  for  at  night 
When  to  his  chamber  he  retired,  attempt 
Was  made  to  seize  him  by  three  armed 

men, 
Acting,  in  furtherance  of  the  father's  will, 
Under  a  private  signet  of  the  state. 
One,  did  the  youth's  ungovernable   hand 
Assault  and  slay,  and  to  a  second  gave 
A  perilous  wound,— he  shuddered  to  behold 
The  breathless  corse;  then  peacefully  re- 
signed 
His  person  to  the  law,  was  lodged  in  prison, 
And  wore  the  fetters  of  a  criminal. 

Have  you  beheld  a  tuft  of  winged  seed 
That,  from  the  dandelion's  naked  stalk, 
Mounted  aloft,  is  suffered  not  to  use 
Its  natural  gifts  ft*  purposes  of  rest, 


POEMS  FOUNDED  OX  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


51 


Driven  by  the  autumnal  whirlwind  to  and 
fro  [marked 

Through  the  wide  element  ?  or  have  you 
The  heavier  substance  of  a  leaf-clad  bough, 
Within  the  vortex  of  a  foaming  tlood, 
Tormented?  by  such  aid  you  may  con- 
ceive 
The  perturbation  of  each  mind  ; — ah,  no  ! 
Desperate  the  maid — the  youth   is  stained 

with  blood  ! 
But  as  the  troubled  seed  and  tortured  bough 
Is  man,  subjected  to  despotic  sway. 

For  him,  Dy  private  influence   with   the 

court, 
Was  pardon  gained,  and  liberty  procured  ; 
Rut  not  without  exaction  of  a  pledge 
Which  liberty  and  love  dispersed  in  air. 
He  flew  to  her  from  whom   they   would 

divide  him—  [peace — 

1  Ie  clove  to  her  who  could  not  give  him 
Yea,  his  first  word  of  greeting  was, — "  All 

right 
Is  gone  from  me  ;  my  lately-towering  hopes, 
To  the  least  fibre  of  their  lowest  root, 
Are  withered ;— thou   no   longer  canst   be 

mine,  [woo 

I  thine — the  conscience-stricken  must  not 
The  unruffled  innocent, — I  see  thy  face, 
Behold  thee,  and  my  misery  is  complete!" 

"One,    are    we    not?"    exclaimed    the 

m?.iden — "One,  [woe?" 

For  innocence  and   youth,    for   weal   and 
Then  with  the  father's  name  she  coupled 

words 
Of  vehement  indignation;  but  the  youth 
Checked  her  with  filial  meekness  ;  for  no 

thought 
Uncharitable,  no  presumptuous  rising 
Of  hasty  censure,  modelled  in  the  eclipse 
Of  true  domestic  loyalty,  did  e'er 
Find  place  within  his  bosom. — Once  again 
The  persevering  wedge  of  tyranny 
Achieved     their     separation ; — and     once 

more 
Were  they  united, — to  be  yet  again 
Disparted' — pitiable  lot!  But  here 
A  portion  of  the  tale  may  well  be  left 
In  silence,  though  my  memory  could  add 
Much  how  the  youth,  in  scanty  space  of 
time,  [of  thoughts 

Was  traversed  from  without  ;  much,  too, 
That  occupied  his  days  in  solitude 
Under  privation  and  restraint ;  and  what. 
Through     dark     and    shapeless    fear    of 
tilings  to  come, 


And   what,   through    strong   compunction 

for  the  past, 
He  suffered— breaking  down  in  heart  and 

mind  ! 

Doomed  to  a  third  and  last  captivity, 
His  freedom  he  recovered  on  the  eve 
Of  Julia's  travail.  When  the  babe  was  born, 
Its  presence  tempted  him  tocherish  schemes 
Of  future  happiness.  "You  shall  return, 
Julia,"  said  he,  "  and  to  your  father's  house 
Go    with    the    child.  —  You    have    been 

wretched  ;  yet  [then  weighs 

The   silver  shower,    whose   reckless    bur- 
Too  heavily  upon  the  lily's  head, 
Oft  leaves  a  saving  moisture  at  its  root. 
Malice,  beholding  you,  will  melt  away. 
Go! — 'tis  a  town  where  both   of  us  were 

born  ;  [known  ; 

None  will  reproach   you,  for  our    truth  is 
And  if,  amidst  those  once-bright   bowers,. 

our  fate 
Remain  unpitied,  pity  is  not  in  man. 
With  ornaments— -the  prettiest  nature  yields 
Or  art  can  fashion,  shall  you  deck  your 

boy,  [sweet  looks 

And  feed  his  countenance  with  your  own 
Till  no  one  can  resist  him. — Now,  even  now, 
I  see  him  sporting  on  the  sunny  lawn  ; 
My  father  from  the  window  sees  him  too  ; 
Startled,  as  if  some  new-created  thing 
Enriched  the  earth,  or  faery  of  the  woods 
Bounded  before  him  ; — but  the  unvveeting 

child  [heart 

Shall  by   his   beauty  win  his    grandsire's 
So  that  it  shall  be  softened,  and  our  loves 
End  happily— as  they  began  !  " 

These  gleams 
Appeared  but  seldom  :  oftener  was  he  seen 
Propping  a  pale  and  melancholy  face 
Upon  the  mother's  bosom  ;  resting  thus 
His  head  upon  one  breast,  while  from  the 

other 
The  babe  was  drawing  in  its  quiet  food. 
That  pillow  is  no  longer  to  be  thine, 
Fond    youth  !    that  mournful  solace  now 

must  pass 
Into  the  list  of  things  that  cannot  be  ! 
Unwedded  Julia,  terror-smitten,  hears 
The  sentence,    by    her   mother's   lip  pro- 
nounced, [shall  tell, 
That    dooms  her    to    a    convent.  —  Who 
Who     dares    report    the     tidings  to    the 

lord 
Of  her  affections?     So  they  blindiy  asked 
Who   knew   not  to  what   quiet   depths  a 

weight 
Of  agony  had  pressed  the  sufferer  down  j  — 


52 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


The  word,  by  others  dreaded,  he  can  hear 
Composed  and  silent,  without  visible  sign 
Of  even  the  least  emotion.     Noting  this 
When  the  impatient  object  of  his  love 
U  pbraided  him  with  slackness,  he  returned 
Xo  answer,  only  took  the  mother's  hand 
And  kissed  it — seemingly  devoid  of  pain, 
Or  care,  that  what  so  tenderly  he  pressed, 
Was  a  dependant  on  the  obdurate  heart 
Of  one  who  came  to  disunite  their  lives 
For  ever — sad  alternative  !  preferred, 
By  the  unbending  parents  of  the  maid, 
To  secret  'spousals  meanly  disavowed. 
So  be  it ! 

In  the  city  he  remainei 
A  season  after  Julia  had  withdrawn 
To  those   religious    walls.      He,   too,  de- 
parts—  [little  one  ! 
Who    with    him?  —  even     the    senseless 
With  that  sole  charge  he  passed  the  city- 
gates, 
For  the  last  time,  attendant  by  the  side 
Of  a  close  chair,  a  litter,  or  sedan, 
In  which  the  babe  was  carried.     To  a  hill, 
That  rose  a  brief  league  distant  from  the 
town,  [lodged 
The  dwellers  in  that  house  where  he  had 
Accompanied  his  steps,  by  anxious  love 
Impelled  : — they  parted   from  him  there, 

and  stood 
Watching  below,  till  he  had  disappeared 
On   the  hill   top.      His  eyes   he   scarcely 

took, 
Throughout  that  journey,  from  the  vehicle 
(Slow-moving  ark  of  all  his  hopes  !)  that 

veiled 
The  tender  infanf  :  and  at  every  inn, 
And  under  every  hospitable  tree 
At  which  the  bearers  halted  or  reposed, 
Laid  him  with  timid  care  upon  his  knees, 
And  looked,  as  mothers  ne'er  were  known 

to  look, 
Upon  the    nursling  which    his   arms  em- 
braced. 

This  was  the  manner  in  which  Vaudra- 

cour 
Departed  with  his  infant ;  and  thus  reached 
His  father's  house,  where  to  the  innocent 

child  [spake 

Admittance  was  denied.     The  young  man 
Xo  words  of  indignation  or  reproof, 
But  of  his  father  begged,  a  last  request, 
That  a  retreat  might  be  assigned  to  him 
Where  in  forgotten  quiet  he  might  dwell, 
With  such  allowance  as  his  wants  required; 
For  wishes  he  had  none.     To  a  lodge  that 

siuod 


Deep  in  a  forest,  with  leave  given,  at  the  age' 
Of  four-and-twenty  summers  he  withdrew; 
And  thither  took  with  him  his  infant  babe, 
And  onedomestic,  for  their  common  needs, 
An  aged  woman.     It  consoled  him  here 
To  attend  upon  the  orphan,  and  perform 
Obsequious  service  to  the  precious  child, 
Which,  after  a  short  time,  by  some  mis- 
take 
Or  indiscretion  of  the  father,  died. 
The  tale  I  follow  to  its  last  recess 
Of  suffering  or  of  peace,  I  know  not  which; 
Theirs  be  the  blame  who  caused  the  woe, 
not  mine  ! 

From  this  time  forth  he  never  shared  a 

smile 
With  mortal  creature.      An  inhabitant 
Of  that  same  town,  in  which,  xhe  pair  had 

left 
So  lively  a  remembrance  of  their  griefs, 
By  chance  of  business,  coming  within  reach 
Of  his  retirement,  to  the  forest  lodge 
Repaired,  but  only  found  the  matron  there, 
Who  told  him  that  his  pains  were  throwi? 

away, 
For  that  her  master  never  uttered  word 
To  living  thing — not  even  to  her. — Behold  ! 
While   they    were   speaking,    Vaudracour 

approached  ; 
But,  seeing  some  one  near,  even  as  his  hand 
Was  stretched  towards  the  garden  gate,  he 

shrunk — 
And,  like  a  shadow,  glided  out  of  view. 
Shocked   at   his   savage  aspect,  from  the. 

place 
The  visitor  retired. 

Thus  lived  the  youth 
Cut  off  from  all  intelligence  with  man, 
And  shunning  even  the  light  of  common 

day ;  [through  France 

Nor   could   the   voice  of  freedom,  which 
Full  speedily  resounded,  public  hope, 
Or  personal   memory   of  his    own    deep 

wrongs, 
Rouse  him  :  but  in  those  solitary  shades 
His  days  he  wasted,  an  imbecile  mind  ! 


./THE  IDIOT  BOY. 

Tis  eight  o'clock, — a  clear  March  night 
The  moon  is  up — the  sky  is  blue, 
The  owlet,  in  the  moonlight  air, 
Shouts,  from  nobody  knows  where  ; 
He  lengthens  out  his  lonely  shout, 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  a  long  halloo  ! 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


53 


Why  bustle  thus  about  your  door, 
What  means  this  bustle,  Betty  Foy? 
Why  are  you  in  this  mighty  fret? 
And  why  on  horseback  have  you  set 
Him  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy? 

There's  scarce  a  soul  that's  out  of  bed  ; 
Good  Betty,  put  him  down  again  ; 
1  lis  lips  with  joy  they  burr  at  you  ; 
But,  Betty  !  what  has  he  to  do 
With  stirrup,  saddle,  or  with  rein? 

But  Betty's  bent  on  her  intent  ; 
For  her  good  neighbour,  Susan  Gale, 
Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone, 
Is  sick,  and  makes  a  piteous  moan, 
As  if  her  very  life  would  fail. 

There's  not  a  house  within  a  mile, 
No  hand  to  help  them  in  distress  ; 
Old  Susan  lies  a-bed  in  pain, 
And  sorely  puzzled  are  the  twain, 
For  what  she  ails  they  cannot  guess. 

And  Betty's  husband's  at  the  wood, 
Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 
A  woodman  in  the  distant  vale  ; 
There's  none  to  help  poor  Susan  Gale  ; 
What  must  be  done?  what  will  betide  ? 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 
Her  pony,  that  is  mild  and  good, 
Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain, 
Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane, 
Or  bringing  faggots  from  the  wood. 

And  he  is  all  in  travelling  trim, — 
And,  by  the  moonlight,  Betty  Foy 
Has  up  upon  the  saddle  set 
(The  like  was  never  heard  of  yet) 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  he  must  post  without  delay 
Across  the  bridge  and  through  the  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  doctor  from  the  town, 
Or  she  will  die,  old  Susan  Gale. 

There  is  no  need  of  boot  or  spur, 
'There  is  no  need  of  whip  or  wand  ; 
For  Johnny  has  his  holly-bough, 
And  with  a  hi/rlv-bi/rly  now 
He  shakes  the  green  bough  in  his  hand. 

And  Betty  o'er  and  o'er  has  told 
The  boy,  who  is  her  best  delight, 
Both  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun, 
What  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone, 
How  turn  to  left,  and  how  to  right. 


And  Betty's  most  especial  charge, 
Was,    "Johnny  !  Johnny  !   mind  th  it  yoil 
Come  home  again,  nor  stop  at  all, — 
Come  home  again,  whate'er  befal. 
My  Johnny,  do,  I  pray  you  do." 

To  this  did  Johnny  answer  make, 
Both  with  his  head,  and  with  his  hand, 
And  proudly  shook  the  bridle  too  ; 
And  then  !  his  words  were  not  a  few, 
Which  Betty  well  could  understand. 

And  now  that  Johnny  is  just  going, 
'Though  Betty's  in  a  mighty  flurry, 
She  gently  pats  the  pony's  side, 
On  which  her  Idiot  Boy  must  ride, 
And  seems  no  longer  in  a  hurry. 

But  when  the  pony  moved  his  legs, 
Oh  !  then  for  the  poor  Idiot  Boy  ! 
For  joy  he  cannot  hold  the  bridle, 
1  or  joy  his  head  and  heels  are  idle, 
He's  idle  all  for  very  joy. 

And  while  the  pony  moves  his  legs, 
In  Johnny's  left  hand  you  may  see 
The  green  bough  motionless  and  dead  : 
The  moon  that  shines  above  his  head 
Is  not  more  still  and  mute  than  he. 

His  heart  it  was  so  full  of  glee, 
That  till  full  fifty  yards  were  gone, 
He  quite  forgot  his  holly  whip, 
And  all  his  skill  in  horsemanship, 
Oh  !  happy,  happy,  happy,  John. 

And  while  the  mother,  at  the  door, 
Stands  fixed,  her  face  with  joy  o'erflows, 
Proud  of  herself,  and  proud  of  him, 
She  sees  him  in  his  travelling  trim, 
How  quietly  her  Johnny  goes. 

The  silence  of  her  Idiot  Boy, 
What  hopes  it  sends  to  Betty's  heart  ! 
He's  at  the  guide-post — he  turns  right, 
She  watches  till  he's  out  of  sight, 
And  Betty  will  not  then  depart. 

Burr,  burr — now  Johnny's  lips  they  burr 
As  loud  as  any  mill,  or  near  it ; 
Meek  as  a  lamb  the  pony  moves, 
And  Johnny  makes  the  noise  he  loves, 
And  Betty  listens,  glad  to  hear  it. 

Away  she  hies  to  Susan  Gale  : 
Her  messenger's  in  merry  tune  ; 
The  owlets  hoot,  the  owlets  curr, 
And  Johnny's  lips  they  hurr,  burr,  burn 
As  on  lie  goes  beneath  the  moon. 


54 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


His  steed  and  he  right  well  agree  ; 
For  of  this  pony  there's  a  rumour, 
That,  should  he  lose  his  eyes  and  ears, 
And  should  he  live  a  thousand  years, 
He  never  will  be  out  of  humour. 

But  then  he  is  a  horse  that  thinks! 
And  when  he  thinks  his  pace  is  slack; 
Now,  though  he  knows  poor  Johnny  well, 
Yet,  for  his  life,  he  cannot  tell 
What  he  has  got  upon  his  back. 

So  through  the  moonlight  lanes  they  go, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  doctor  from  the  town 
To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  Betty,  now  at  Susan's  side, 
Is  in  the  middle  of  her  story, 
What  comfort  soon  her  boy  will  bring, 
With  many  a  most  diverting  thing, 
Of  Johnny's  wit,  and  Johnny's  glory. 

And  Betty,  still  at  Susan's  side, 
By  this  time  is  not  quite  so  flurried: 
Demure  with  porringer  and  plate 
She  sits,  as  if  in  Susan's  fate 
Her  life  and  soul  were  buried. 

But  Betty,  poor  good  woman!  she, 
You  plainly  in  her  face  may  read  it, 
Could  lend  out  of  that  moment's  store, 
Five  years  of  happiness  or  more 
To  any  that  might  need  it. 

But  yet  I  guess  that  now  and  then 
With  Betty  all  was  not  so  well; 
And  to  the  road  she  turns  her  ears, 
And  thence  full  many  a  sound  she  hears, 
Which  she  to  Susan  will  not  tell. 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans; 
"As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  in  heaven,"  ' 
Cries  Betty,  "he'll  be  back  again; 
They'll  both  be  here — 'tis  almost  ten— 
Both  will  be  here  before  eleven." 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans; 
Hie  clock  gives  warning  for  eleven; 
Tis  on  the  stroke—"  He  must  be  near," 
Quoth  Betty,  "and  will  soon  be  here, 
As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  in  heaven." 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve, 
And  Johnny  is  not  yet  in  sight, 
The  moon's  in  heaven,  as  Betty  sees, 
But  Betty  is  not  quite  at  ease, 
And  Susan  has  a  dreadful  night. 


And  Betty,  half  an  hour  ago, 
On  Johnny  vile  reflections  cast: 
"A  little  idle  sauntering  thing!" 
With  other  names,  an  endless  string; 
But  now  that  time  is  gone  and  past. 

And  Betty's  drooping  at  the  heart, 
That  happy  time  all  past  and  gone, 
"  How  can  it  be  he  is  so  late  ? 
The  doctor  he  has  made  him  wait ; 
Susan!  they'll  both  be  here  anon." 

And  Susan's  growing  worse  and  worse, 
And  Betty's  in  a  sad  quandary  ; 
And  then  there's  nobody  to  say 
If  she  must  go  or  she  must  stay  ! 
She's  in  a  sad  quandary. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  one; 
But  neither  doctor  nor  his  guide 
Appears  along  the  moonlight  road; 
There's  neither  horse  nor  man  abroad, 
And  Bef-'s  still  at  Susan's  side. 

And  Susan  now  begins  to  fear 

Of  sad  mischances  not  a  few, 
J  That  Johnny  may  perhaps  be  drowned, 
I  Or  lost,  perhaps,  and  never  found; 
I  Which  they  must  both  for  ever  rue. 

She  prefaced  half  a  hint  of  this 
With  "  God  forbid  it  should  be  true  !" 
At  the  first  word  that  Susan  said 
Cried  Betty,  rising  from  the  bed, 
' '  Susan,  I  d  gladly  stay  with  you. 

"  I  must  be  gone,  I  must  away, 
Consider,  Johnny's  but  half  wise; 
Susan,  we  must  take  care  of  him, 
If  he  is  hurt  in  life  or  limb" — 
I  "  Oh,  God  forbid  !"  poor  Susan  cries. 

"What  can  I  do?"  says  Betty,  going, 
' '  What  can  I  do  to  ease  your  pain  ? 
Good  Susan  tell  me,  and  I'll  stay; 
I  fear  you're  in  a  dreadful  way, 
But  I  shall  soon  be  back  again." 

"  Nay,  Betty,  go;  good  Betty,  go! 
There's  nothing  that  can  ease  my  pain.' 
Then  off  she  hies  ;  but  with  a  prayer 
That  God  poor  Susan's  life  would  spare, 
Till  she  comes  back  again. 

So,  through  the  moonlight  lane  she  goes, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale; 
And  how  she  ran,  and  how  she  walked, 
And  all  that  to  herself  she  talked, 
Would  surely  be  a  tedious  tale. 


POEMS  WOUNDED  OX  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


55 


In  high  and  low,  above,  below, 
In  great  and  small,  in  round  and  square, 
In  tree  and  tower  was  Johnny  seen, 
In  bush  and  brake,  in  black  and  green, 
Twas  Johnny,  Johnny,  every  where. 

The  bridge  is  past— far  in  the  dale; 
And  now  the  thought  torments  her  sore, 
Johnny  perhaps  his  horse  forsook, 
To  hunt  the  moon  within  the  brook. 
And  never  will  be  heard  of  more. 

Now  is  she  high  upon  the  down, 
Alone  amid  a  prospect  wide; 
There's  neither  Johnny  nor  his  horse 
Among  the  fern  or  in  the  gorse; 
There's  neither  doctor  nor  his  guide. 

"  O  saints!  what  is  become  of  him? 
Perhaps  he's  climbed  into  an  oak, 
Where  he  will  stay  till  he  is  dead; 
Or,  sadly  he  has  been  misled, 
And  joined  the  wandering  gipsy-folk. 

"  Or  him  that  wicked  pony's  carried 
To  the  dark  cave,  the  goblin's  hall; 
Or  in  the  castle  he's  pursuing 
Among  the  ghosts  his  own  undoing; 
Or  playing  with  the  waterfall." 

At  poor  old  Susan  then  she  railed, 
While  to  the  town  she  posts  away; 
"  If  Susan  had  not  been  so  ill, 
Alas!  I  should  have  had  him  still, 
My  Johnny,  till  my  dying  day." 

Poor  Betty,  in  this  sad  distemper, 
The  doctor's  self  could  hardly  spare; 
Unworthy  things  she  talked,  and  wild; 
Even  he,  of  cattle  the  most  mild, 
The  pony  had  his  share. 

And  now  she's  got  into  the  town, 
And  to  the  doctor's  door  she  hies; 
Tis  silence  all  on  every  side; 
The  town  so  long,  the  town  so  wide, 
Is  silent  as  the  skies. 

And  now  she's  at  the  doctor's  door, 
She  lifts  the  knocker,  rap,  rap,  rap; 
The  doctor  at  the  casement  shows 
His  glimmering  eyes  that  peep  and  doze! 
And  one  hand  rubs  his  old  night-cap. 

"  Oh,  doctor!  doctor!  where 's  my  Johnny!" 
"  I'm  here,  what  is't  you  want  with  me?" 
"  Oh,  sir!  you  know  I'm  Betty  Foy 
And  I  have  lost  my  poor  dear  boy, 
You  know  him— him  you  often  see; 


"  He's  not  so  wise  as  some  folks  be.' 
"  The  devil  take  his  wisdom  !"  said 
The  doctor,  looking  somewhat  grim, 
"  What,  woman!  should  I  know  of  him  ?" 
And,  grumbling,  he  went  back  to  bed. 

"  Oh,  woe  is  me!  Oh,  woe  is  me! 
Here  will  I  die;  here  will  I  die, 
I  thought  to  find  my  lost  one  here, 
But  he  is  neither  far  nor  near, 
Oh!  what  a  wretched  mother  I!' 

She  stops,  she  stands,  she  looks  about; 
Which  way  to  turn  she  cannot  tell. 
Poor  Betty  !  it  would  ease  her  pain 
If  she  had  heart  to  knock  again; 
The  clock  strikes  three— a  dismal  knell! 

Then  up  along  the  town  she  hies, 

No  wonder  if  her  senses  fail, 

This  piteous  news  so  much  it  shocked  her, 

She  quite  forgot  to  send  the  doctor, 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  now  she's  high  upon  the  down, 
And  she  can  see  a  mile  of  road; 
"  Oh,  cruel !  I'm  almost  threescore ; 
Such  night  as  this  was  ne'er  before, 
There's  not  a  single  soul  abroad." 

She  listens,  but  she  cannot  hear 
The  foot  of  horse,  the  voice  of  man; 
The  streams  with  softest  sound  are  flowing, 
The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing, 
You  hear  it  now  if  e'er  you  can. 

The  owlets  through  the  long  blue  night 
Are  shouting  to  each  other  still: 
Fond  lovers!  yet  not  quite  hob  nob 
They  lengthen  out  the  tremulous  sob, 
That  echoes  far  from  hill  to  hill. 

Poor  Betty  now  has  lost  all  hope, 
Her  thoughts  are  bent  on  deadly  sin: 
A  green-grown  pond  she  just  has  past, 
And  from  the  brink  she  hurries  fast, 
Lest  she  should  drown  herself  therein. 

And  now  she  sits  her  down  and  weeps; 

Such  tears  she  never  shed  before ; 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  pony!  my  sweet  joy! 

Oh,  carry  back  my  Idiot  Boy! 

And  we  will  ne'er  o'erload  thee  more." 

A  thought  is  come  into  her  head; 
"  The  pony  he  is  mild  and  good, 
And  we  have  always  used  him  well; 
Perhaps  he's  gone  along  the  dell, 
And  carried  Johnny  to  the  wood." 


56 


P0E2IS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Then  up  she  springs  as  if  on  wings; 
She  thinks  no  more  of  deadly  sin; 
II  Betty  fifty  ponds  should  see, 
The  last  of  all  her  thoughts  would  be 
To  drown  herself  therein. 

0  reader !  now  that  I  might  tell 
What  Johnny  and  Lis  horse  are  doing ! 
What  they've  been  doing  all  this  time, 
Oh,  couk1  I  put  it  into  rhyme, 

A  most  delightful  tale  pursuing ! 

Perhaps,  and  no  unlikely  thought! 
He  with  his  pony  now  doth  roam 
The  cliffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 
To  lay  his  hands  upon  a  star, 
And  in  his  pocket  bring  it  home. 

Perhaps  he's  turned  himself  about, 
His  face  unto  his  horse's  tail, 
And,  still  and  mute,  in  wonder  lost, 
All  like  a  silent  horseman-ghost, 
He  travels  on  along  the  vale. 

And  now,  perhaps,  is  hunting  sheep, 
A  fierce  and  dreadful  hunter  he; 
Yon  valley,  now  so  trim  and  green, 
In  five  months'  time,  should  he  be  seen, 
A  desert  wilderness  will  be ! 

Perhaps,  with  head  and  heels  on  fire, 
And  like  the  very  soul  of  evil, 
He's  galloping  away,  away, 
And  so  will  gallop  on  for  aye, 
The  bane  of  all  that  dread  the  devil ! 

1  to  the  Muses  have  been  bound 

These  fourteen  years,  by  strong  indentures: 

O  gentle  Muses !  let  me  tell 

But  half  of  what  to  him  befel, 

He  surely  met  with  strange  adventures. 

O  gentle  Muses!  is  this  kind? 
Why  will  ye  thus  my  suit  repel  ? 
Why  of  your  further  aid  bereave  me  ? 
And  can  ye  thus  unfriended  leave  me ; 
Ye  Muses!  whom  I  love  so  well  ? 

Who's  yon,  that,  near  the  waterfall, 
Which  thunders  down  with  headlong  force, 
Beneath  the  moon,  yet  shining  fair, 
As  careless  as  if  nothing  were, 
Sits  upright  on  a  feeding  horse  ? 

Unto  his  horse,  there  feeding  free, 
He  seems,  I  think,  the  rein  to  give; 
Of  moon  or  stars  he  takes  no  heed  ; 
Of  such  we  in  romances  read  : 
Tis  johnny  !  Johnny !  as  I  live. 


And  that's  the  very  pony  too  ! 
Where  is  she,  where  is  Betty  Foy 
She  hardly  can  sustain  her  fears; 
The  roaring  waterfall  she  hears, 
And  cannot  find  her  Idiot  Boy. 

Your  pony's  worth  his  weight  in  gold; 
Then  calm  your  terrors,  Betty  Foy  ! 
She's  coming  from  among  the  trees, 
And  now  all  full  in  view  she  sees 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Betty  sees  the  pony  too: 

Why  stand  you  thus,  good  Betty  Foy? 

It  is  no  goblin,  'tis  no  ghost, 

'Tis  he  whom  you  so  long  have  lost, 

He  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy. 

She  looks  again — her  arms  are  up — 
She  screams — she  cannot  move  for  joy; 
She  darts,  as  with  a  torrent's  force, 
She  almost  has  o'erturned  the  horse 
And  fast  she  holds  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Johnny  burrs,  and  laughs  aloud, 
Whether  in  cunning  or  in  joy 
I  cannot  tell;  but  while  he  laughs, 
Betty  a  drunken  pleasure  quaffs 
To  hear  again  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  now  she's  at  the  pony's  tail, 
And  now  is  at  the  pony's  head, — 
On  that  side  now,  and  now  on  this; 
And,  almost  stifled  with  her  bliss, 
A  few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed. 

She  kisses  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy; 
She's  happy  here,  is  happy  there, 
She  is  uneasy  every  where ; 
Her  limbs  are  all  alive  with  joy. 

She  pats  the  pony,  where  or  when 
She  knows  not,  happy  Betty  Foyl 
The  little  pony  glad  may  be, 
But  he  is  milder  far  than  she, 
You  hardly  can  perceive  his  joy. 

"Oh  !  Johnny,  never  mind  the  doctor; 
You've  done  your  best,  and  that  is  all." 
She  took  the  reins,  when  this  was  said, 
And  gently  turned  the  pony's  head 
From  the  loud  waterfall. 

By  this  the  stars  were  almost  gone, 
The  moon  was  setting  on  the  hill, 
So  pale  you  scarcely  looked  at  her: 
The  little  birds  began  to  stir, 
Though  yet  their  tongues  were  still. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


57 


The  pony,  Betty,  and  her  boy, 
Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale; 
And  who  is  she,  betimes  abroad, 
That  hobbles  up  the  steep  rough  road? 
Who  is  it,  but  old  Susan  Gale? 

Long  time  lay  Susan  lost  in  thought, 
And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her, 
Both  for  her  messenger  and  nurse; 
And  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  worse, 
Her  body  it  grew  better. 

She  turned,  she  tossed  herself  in  bed, 
On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her; 
Point  after  point  did  she  discuss; 
And  while  her  mind  was  fighting  thus, 
Her  body  still  grew  better. 

"Alas!  what  is  become  of  them? 

These  fears  can  never  be  endured, 

I'll  to  the  wood."— The  word  scarce  said, 

Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed, 

As  if  by  magic  cured. 

Away  she  posts  uphill  and  down, 

And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come; 

She  spies  her  friends,  she  shouts  a  greeting; 

Oh  me  !  it  is  a  merry  meeting 

As  ever  was  in  Christendom. 

The  owls  have  hardly  sung  their  last, 
While  our  four  travellers  homeward  wend; 
The  owls  have  hooted  all  night  long, 
And  with  the  owls  began  my  song, 
And  with  the  owls  must  end. 

For  while  they  all  were  travelling  home, 
Cried  Betty,  "Tell  us,  Johnny,  do, 
Where  all  this  long  night  you  have  been, 
What  you  have  heard,  what  you  have  seen, 
And,  Johnny,  mind  you  tell  us  true." 

Now  Johnny  all  night  long  had  heard 
The  owls  in  tuneful  concert  strive; 
No  doubt  too  he  the  moon  had  seen; 
For  in  the  moonlight  he  had  been 
From  eight  o'clock  till  five. 

And  thus,  to  Betty's  question,  he 
Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold, 
(His  very  words  I  give  to  you,) 
"The  cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold." 
Thus  answered  Johnny  in  his  glory, 
And  that  was  all  his  travel's  story. 


MICHAEL. 

A    I'ASTORAL    POEM. 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps; 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head 

Ghyll. 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle;  in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to 
face.  [brook 

But,  courage !    for  around  that  boisterous 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  them- 
selves, 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  can  be  seen:  but  they 
Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones, 

and  kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.    Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stonesl 
And  to  that  place  a  story  appertains, 
Which,    though   it    be   ungarnished   with 

events, 
Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside, 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved; — not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and 

hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy 
Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 
Of  nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 
(At  random' and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life, 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of ;  few  natural  hearts; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  poets,  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  Michael  was  his 
name;  [limb. 

An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength:  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 


m 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all 

winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  south 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  tohimself  would  say, 
"The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me  ! " 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm — that 

drives 
The  traveller  to  a  shelter — summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains:  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him  and  left  himon  theheights. 
So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  sup- 
pose [rocks, 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  shepherd's 
thoughts.                                  [breathed 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had 
The  common  air;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 
Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps;  which 

had  impressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which  like  a  book  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts, 
So  grateful  in  themselves,  the  certainty 
Of  honourable  gain;  these  fields,  these  hills, 
Which  were  his  living  being,  even  more 
Than  his  own  blood — what  could  they  less? 

had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  single- 
ness. 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty 

years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house:  two  wheels 
she  had  [wool, 

Of  antique   form,    this  large  for  spinning 
That  small  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had 

rest, 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 
An  only  child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's 

phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.    This  only  son, 


With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a 

storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.    I  may  truly  say, 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.  When  day  was  gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even 

then, 
Their  labour  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 
Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and 

there,  [milk, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed 
Sat  round   their  basket  piled  w;ith  oaten 

cakes,  [when  their  meal 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.  Yet 
Was  ended,  Luke  (forso  the  son  was  named) 
And  his  old  father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling  by  the  chimney's 


That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  housewife  hunga  lamp; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late, 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 
Which  going  by  from  year  to  year  had  found 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with   objects   and  with 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry.         [hopes, 
And   now,    when   Luke   had   reached   his 

eighteenth  year 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 
Father  and  son,  while  late  into  the  night 
The  housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 
Thethriftypairhadlived.  For, asitchanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with   large   prospect,   north 

and  south, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 
Both  old    and  young,  was  named    The 

Evening  Star. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  A  FFECTIONS. 


59 


Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of 

years,  [needs 

The  shepherd,   if  he  loved  himself,   must 

Have  loved  his  helpmate  ;  but  to  Michael's 

heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  spirit,  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all — 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward  looking 

thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and   his  heart's  joy!  For  often- 
times 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love, 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind. 
To  have  the  young  one  in  his  sight,  when 

he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  shepherd's 

stool,  [door 

Beneath  that  large  old  oak,  which  near  their 
Stood, — and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of 

shade, 
Chosen  for  the  shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,*  a  name  which  yet  it 

bears.  [shade, 

There,  while  they  two  w:ere  sitting  in  the 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and 

blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they   lay  still  beneath 

the  shears. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the 

boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With   his   own  hand  a  sapling,    which  he 

hooped 

*  Clipping  is  the  word  used  in  the  North   of 
England  for  shearing. 


With  iron,  making  it  throughou.  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  boy;  wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something   between   a   hindrance    and   a 

help; 
And  for  this  course  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise; 
Though    nought   was  left   undone    which 

staff  or  voice,  [perform. 

Cr  looks,    or    threatening  gestures  could 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could 
stand  [heights, 

Against  the  mountain  blasts;  and  to  the 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That   objects   which   the  shepherd   loved 
before  [came 

Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  boy  there 
Feelings    and    emanations — things    which 

were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind; 
And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seemed  bora 

again. 
Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up; 
And  now  when   he  had  reached  his  eigh- 
teenth year, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household 

lived  [came 

From  day   to   day,  to  Michael's  ear  there 

Distressful  tidings.      Long  before  the  time 

Of  which  I  speak,  the  shepherd  had  been 

bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means— 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenty 
Had  prest  upon  him, — and  old  Michael 
now  [ture, 

Was  summoned   to   discharge   the  forfeit 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.      This  unlooked- 
for  claim 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As   soou  as   he   had     gathered   so   much 

strength 
Thai  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face. 
It  seemed  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought agaiD, 


80 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  his  heart  failed  him. ' '  Isabel, "  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy 

years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.    I  forgive  him — but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 
He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know- 

est, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall 

go,  [thrift 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
.May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?  Where  every  one  is 

poor,  [paused, 

What  can  be  gained?"  At  this  the  old  man 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's   Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to 

herself, 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings, 

pence,  [bought 

And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbours 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedlar's 

wares; 
And  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad, 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who  out  of  many  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas  :  where  he  grew  wondrous 

rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 
And  at  his  birthplace  built  a  chapel  floored 
With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign 

lands.  [sort, 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  man 

was  glad, 


And  thus  resumed  :— "Well,  Isabel!  this 

scheme 
These  two  days  has  been  meat  and  drink 

to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger, — but  this  hope  is  a  good 
hope.  [best 

Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the 
Buy  for   him  more,   and  let  us  send  him 

forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 
If  he  could  go,    the  boy     should  go    to- 
night." [forth 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went 
With  a  light  heart.    The  housewife  for  five 
days  [long 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  pre- 
pare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work  :  for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  two  last 
nights                                            [sleep : 
Heard   him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could 
see                                                   [noon 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.  That  day  at 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  them- 
selves [go: 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not 
We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  father  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made   answer  with  a  jocund 

voice  ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered   heart.     That  evening  her  best 

fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  ap- 
peared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  spring  :  at  length 
The   expected    letter    from  their  kinsman 

came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  boy ; 
To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forth- 
with [more 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or 
The  letter  was  read  over  ;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbours 

round  ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 


TWVs'  FOUNDED  <>X  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


til 


A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.  When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  man 

said,  [word 

"lie   shall   depart    to-morrow."     To  this 
The  housewife  answered,  talking  much  of 

things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  hcshould  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave   consent,    and    Michael   was  at 

ease. 

Near  the   tumultuous  brook  of  Green- 
head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To   build   a   sheep-fold  ;    and,    before   he 

heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's 

edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With    Luke  that  evening  thitherward   he 
walked  ;  [stopped, 

And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he 
And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him. — ' '  My 
son,  [heart 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories  ;  'twill  do  thee  good 
When   thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should 
speak  [After  thou 

Of  things   thou   canst   not  know   of. 

First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born    infants — thou    didst    sleep 
away  [tongue 

Two   days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's 
Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed 

on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard   thee  by  our  own  fire- 
side [tune  ; 
First   uttering,  without   words,    a   natural 
When  thou,  a  feeding   babe,    didst  in  thy 
joy                                    [lowed  month, 
Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.    Month  fol- 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And   on  the  mountains,   else   I  think  that 
thou                                                  [knees. 
Hadst  been   brought  up  upon  thy  father's 
But   we  were    playmates,    Luke:   among 
these  hills,                                    [young 
As  well  thou  know'st,  in  us  the   old  and 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst 
thou 


Lack  any  pleasure  which  ahoy  can  know." 
I. ukc    had  a   manly   heart;  but  at    these 

words  [his  hand. 

He  sobbed  aloud.  The  old  man  grasped 
And  said,  "  Nay,  do  niol  take  it  so— I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not 

speak. 
Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  ihej 
A  kind  and  a  good  father  :  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands;  for,  though  now 

old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember    them    who    loved   me   in    my 

youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived 
As  all  their  forefathers  had  done  ;  and  when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were 

not  loath 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wished  that   thou  shouldst  live  the  life 

they  lived. 
But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 
And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 
These   fields   were  burthened   when   they 

came  to  me  ; 
Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled  ;  God  blessed  me  in  my 

work,  [was  free. 

And  till  these  three   weeks  past  the  land 
It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another  master.  Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  shouldst  go."   At  this  the  old 

man  paused  ;  [they  stood, 

Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed  : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us  ;  and  now,  my 

son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.  But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own 

hands.  [live 

Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  ; — do  thou  t Im- 
part, 
I  will  do  mine.— I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee; 
Up   to   the   heights,    and   in   among    the 

storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I   knew   thy   face. — Heaven    bless 

thee,  boy  !  [ing  fast 

Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beat- 
With  many  hopes — It  should  be  so-   \ 

yes-- 


62 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound 

to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love :  when  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us  ! — But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested  ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son, 
And    of   this  moment ;    hither   turn  thy 

thoughts,  ffear 

And  God  will  strengthen  thee  :  amid  all 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers 

lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them   in  good  deeds.      Now,   fare 

thee  well—  [wilt  see 

When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place 
A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 

Twill  be  between  us But,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave. " 

The   shepherd  ended  here ;  and   Luke 

stooped  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheep-fold.     At  the 

sight  [his  heart 

The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him  ;  to 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and 

wept ; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed    was    that    house    in    peace,    or 

seeming  peace,  [the  boy 

Ere  the  night  fell;— with  morrow's  dawn 
Began    his    journey,   and   when    he    had 

reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face  ; 
And  all  the  neighbours  as  he  passed  their 

doors  [prayers, 

Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 


He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at   the  sheep-fold.      Meantime 

Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty ;  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses  :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the   brain,    or  break  the 
heart:  [well 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who 
Remember  the  old  man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to 
__    aSe  [rocks 

Of    an    unusual    strength.      Among    the 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  upon  the  sun, 
And  listened  to  the  wind  ;  and  as  before 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And    to  that  hollow  dell  from   time  to 

time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  man— and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and   many  a  day  he  thithel 

went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 


A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman 

come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing  :  and  the  boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were 

throughout 
"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both   parents   read    them    with    rejoicing 

hearts.  [again 

So,    many  months   passed  on  :  and  once  | 
The  shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts ;  and 

now  [hour 

Sometime.*;  when  he  could  find  a  leisure 


There,  by  the  sheep-fold,  sometimes  was 
he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  dog. 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years  from  time  to 
time  [wrought, 

He    at    the    building    of    this   sheep-fold 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  husband  :  at   her  death  the 

estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening 
Star  [the  ground 

Is  gone— the  ploughshare  has  been  through 
On  which  it  stood;   great   changes  have 
been  wrought  [js  left 

In  all  the  neighbourhood  : — yet   the  oak 
That  grew  beside  their  door  ;  and  the  re- 
mains 
Of  the  unfinished  sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head 
Ghyll. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  WAGGONER. 


To  Charles  Lamb,  Esq. 

My  Dear  Friend, — When  I  sent  yon, 
a  few  weeks  ago,  the  Tale  of  Peter  Bell, 
you  asked  "  why  The  Waggoner  was 
not  added  ?"  To  say  the  truth, — from  the 
higher  tone  of  imagination,  and  the  deeper 
touches  of  passion  aimed  at  in  the  former, 
I  apprehended,  this  little  piece  could  not 
accompany  it  without  disadvantage.  In 
the  year  1806,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  The 
Waggoner  was  read  to  you  in  manu- 
script :  and,  as  you  have  remembered  it 
for  so  long  a  time,  I  am  the  more  en- 
couraged to  hope,  that,  since  the  localities 
on  which  it  partly  depends  did  not  prevent 
its  being  interesting  to  you,  it  may  prove 
acceptable  to  others.  Being  therefore  in 
some  measure  the  cause  of  its  present 
appearance,  you  must  allow  me  the  grati- 
fication of  inscribing  it  to  you  ;  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  pleasure  I  have  derived 
from  your  writings,  and  of  the  high  esteem 
With  which  I  am,  very  truly  yours, 

William  Wordsworth. 

Rvdal  MofNT,  May  20,  1819. 


CANTO  I. 

'Tis  spent — this  burning  day  of  June  ! 
Soft  darkness  o'er  its  latest  gleams  is  steal- 
The  dor-hawk,  solitary  bird,  \ing  '< 

Round  the  dim  crags  on   heavy  pinions 

wheeling, 
Buzzes  incessantly,  a  tiresome  tune ; 
That  constant  voice  is  all  that  can  be  heard 
In  silence  deeper  far  than  that  of  deepest 

noon  ! 

Confiding  glow-worms  !  'tis  a  night 
Propitious  to  your  earth-born  light ; 
But,  where  the  scattered  stars  are  seen 
In  hazy  straits  the  clouds  between, 
Each,  in  his  station  twinkling  not, 
Seems  changed  into  a  pallid  spot. 
The  air.  as  in  a  lion's  den, 
Is  close  and  hot  ; — and  now  and  then 
Comes  a  tired  and  sultry  breeze 
With  a  haunting  and  a  panting, 
Like  the  stifling  of  disease  ; 
The  mountains  rise  to  wondrous  height, 
And  in  the  heavens  there  hangs  a  weight ; 
But  the  dews  allay  the  heat, 
And  the  silence  makes  it  sweet. 


Hush,  there  is  some  one  on  the  stir ! 
'Tis  Benjamin  the  waggoner  ; — 
Who  long  hath  trod  this  toilsome  way 
Companion  of  the  night  and  day. 
That  far-off  tinkling's  drowsy  cheer, 
Mixed  with  a  faint  yet  grating  sound 
In  a  moment  lost  and  found, 
The  wain  announces— -by  whose  side, 
Along  the  banks  of  Rydal  Mere, 
He  paces  on,  a  trusty  guide, — 
Listen  !  you  can  scarcely  hear  ! 
Hither  he  his  course  is  bending  ; — 
Now  he  leaves  the  lower  ground, 
And  up  the  craggy  hill  ascending 
Many  a  stop  and  stay  he  makes, 
Many  a  breathing-fit  he  takes  ; — 
Steep  the  way  and  wearisome, 
Yet  all  the  while  his  whip  is  dumb  ! 

The  horses  have  worked  with  right  good 
will, 
And  now  have  gained  the  top  of  the  hill ; 
He  was  patient — they  were  strong — 
And  now  they  smoothly  glide  along, 
Gathering  breath,  and  pleased  to  win 
The  praises  of  mild  Benjamin. 
Heaven  shield  him  from  mishap  and  snars 
But  why  so  early  with  this  prayer? 
Is  it  for  threatenings  in  the  sky  ? 
Or  for  some  other  danger  nigh  ? 
No,  none  is  near  him  yet,  though  he 
Be  one  of  much  infirmity ; 
For,  at  the  bottom  of  the  brow, 
Where  once  the  Dove  and  Oi.ive-bough 
Offered  a  greeting  of  good  ale 
To  all  who  entered  Grasmere  Vale  ; 
And  called  on  him  who  must  depart 
To  leave  it  with  a  jovial  heart  ; — 
There,  where  the  Dove  and  Olive-bough 
Once  hung,  a  poet  harbours  now,— 
A  simple  water-drinking  bard  ; 
Why  need  our  hero,  then,  (though  frail 
His  best  resolves)  be  on  his  guard? 
He  marches  by,  secure  and  bold, — 
Yet,  while  he  thinks  on  times  of  old, 
It  seems  that  all  looks  wondrous  cold  ; 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders — shakes  his  head- 
And,  for  the  honest  folk  within, 
It  is  a  doubt  with  Benjamin 
Whether  they  be  alive  or  dead  ! 

Here  is  no  danger, — none  at  all ! 
Beyond  his  wish  is  he  secure  ; 
But  pass  a  mile — and  then  for  trial, — 
Then  for  the  pride  of  self-denial ; 
If  he  resist  that  tempting  door, 
Which  with  such  friendly  voice  will  cal\ 
If  he  resist  those  casement  panes, 


64 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  that   bright  gleam   which  thence  will 

Upon  his  leaders'  bells  and  manes,        [fall 

Inviting  him  with  cheerful  lure  ; 

For  still,  though  all  be  dark  elsewhere, 

Some  shining  notice  will  be  there, 

Of  open  house  and  ready  fare. 

The  place  to  Benjamin  full  well 
Is  known,  and  by  as  strong  a  spell 
As  used  to  be  that  sign  of  love 
And  hope — the  Oltve-BOUGH  and  Dove 
He  knows  it  to  his  cost,  good  man  ! 
Who  does  not  know  the  famous  SWAN  ? 
Uncouth  although  the  object  be, 
An  image  of  perplexity  ; 
Yet  not  the  less  it  is  our  boast. 
For  it  was  painted  by  the  host  ; 
His  own  conceit  the  figure  planned, 
'Twas  coloured  all  by  his  own  hand  ; 
And  that  frail  child  of  thirsty  clay, 
Of  whom  I  sing  this  rustic  lay, 
Could  tell  with  self-dissatisfaction 
Quaint  stories  of  the  bird's  attraction  !* 

Well  !  that  is  past — and  in  despite 
Of  open  door  and  shining  light. 
And  now  the  conqueror  essays 
The  long  ascent  of  Dunmail-raise ; 
And  with  his  team  is  gentle  here 
As  when  he  clomb  from  Rydal  Mere  ; 
His  whip  they  do  not  dread — his  voice 
They  only  hear  it  to  rejoice. 
To  stand  or  go  is  at  their  pleasure  ; 
Their  efforts  and  their  time  they  measure 
By  generous  pride  within  the  breast 
And,  while  they  strain,  and  while  they  rest, 
He  thus  pursues  his  thoughts  at  leisure. 

Now  am  I  fairly  safe  to-night — 
And  never  was  my  heart  more  light. 
I  trespassed  lately  worse  than  ever — 
But  Heaven  will  bless  a  good  endeavour  ; 
And,  to  my  soul's  delight,  I  find 
The  evil  one  is  left  behind. 
Yes,  let  my  master  fume  and  fret, 
Here  am  I — with  my  horses  yet! 
My  jolly  team,  he  finds  that  ye 
Will  work  for  nobody  but  me! 
Good  proof  of  this  the  country  gained, 
One  day,  when  ye  were  vexed  and  strained — 
Intrusted  to  another's  care, 
And  forced  unworthy  stripes  to  bear. 
Here  was  it— on  this  rugged  spot 
Which  now,  contented  with  our  lot, 


*  This  rude  piece  of  self-taught  art  (such  is 
the  progress  of  refinement)  has  been  supplanted 
by  a  professional  production. 


We  climb — that,  piteously  abused, 

Ye  plunged  in  anger  and  confused  : 

As  chance  would  have  it,  passing  by 

I  saw  you  in  your  jeopardy  : 

A  word  from  me  was  like  a  charm — 

The  ranks  Were  taken  with  one  mind  ; 

And  your  huge  burthen,  safe  from  harm, 

Moved  like  a  vessel  in  the  wind  ! 

Yes,  without  me,  up  hills  so  high 

"lis  vain  to  strive  for  mastery. 

Then  grieve  not,  jolly  team  !  though  tough 

The  road  we  travel,  steep  and  rough. 

Though  Rydal-heights  and  Dunmail-raise, 

And  all  their  fellow  banks  and  braes, 

Full  often  make  you  stretch  and  strain, 

And  halt  for  breath  and  bait  again, 

Yet  to  their  sturdiness  'tis  owing 

That  side  by  side  we  still  are  going ! 

While  Benjamin  in  earnest  mood 
His  meditations  thus  pursued, 
A  storm,  which  had  been  smothered  long, 
Was  growing  inwardly  more  strong  ; 
And,  in  its  struggles  to  get  free, 
Was  busily  employed  as  he. 
The  thunder  had  begun  to  growl- 
He  heard  not,  too  intent  of  soul ; 
The  a'r  was  now  without  a  breath — 
He  marked  not  that  'twas  still  as  death. 
But  soon  large  drops  upon  his  head 
Fell  with  the  weight  of  drops  of  lead  ; — 
He  starts — and,  at  the  admonition, 
Takes  a  survey  of  his  condition. 
The  road  is  black  before  his  eyes, 
Glimmering  faintly  where  it  lies  ; 
Black  is  the  sky — and  every  hill, 
Up  to  the  sky,  is  blacker  still  ; 
A  huge  and  melancholy  room, 
Hung  round  and  overhung  with  gloom  ! 
Save  that  above  a  single  height 
Is  to  be  seen  a  lurid  light, 
Above  Helm-cragt — a  streak  half  dead, 
A  burning  of  portentous  red  ; 
And,  near  that  lurid  light,  full  well 
The  Astrologer,  sage  Sidrophel, 
Where  at  his  desk  and  book  he  sits, 
Puzzling  on  high  his  curious  wits  ; 
He  whose  domain  is  held  in  common 
With  no  one  but  the  ancient  woman, 
Cowering  beside  her  rifted  cell ; 
As  if  intent  on  magic  spell  ; — 
Dread  pair,  that  spite  of  wind  and  weather, 
Still  sit  upon  Helm-crag  together  ! 

t  A  mountain  of  Grasmere,  the  broken  summit 
of  which  presents  two  figures,  full  as  distinctly 
shaped  as  that  of  the  famous  Cobbler,  near 
Arroquhar,  in  Scotland. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


65 


The  Astrologf.r  was  not  unseen 
!    By  solitary  Benjamin  : 

But  total  darkness  came  anon, 
And  lie  and  everything  was  gone. 
And  suddenly  a  ruffling  breeze,  [trees 

(That  would'  have  sounded   through    the 
Had  aught  of  sylvan  growth  been  there) 
Was  felt  throughout  the  region  bare  : 
The  rain  rushed  down — the  road  was  bat- 
tered, 
As  with  the  force  of  billows  shattered  ; 
The  horses  are  dismayed,  nor  know 
Whether  they  should  stand  or  go  ; 
And  Benjamin  is  groping  near  them, 
Sees  nothing,  and  can  scarcely  hear  them. 
He  is  astounded, — wonder  not, — 
With  such  a  charge  in  such  a  spot  ; 
Astounded  in  the  mountain  gap 
By  peals  of  thunder,  clap  on  clap  ! 
And  many  a  terror-striking  flash  ; — 
And  somewhere,  as  it  seems,  a  crash, 
Among  the  rocks  ;  with  weight  of  rain, 
^nd  sullen  motions  long  and  slow, 
That  to  a  dreary  distance  go — 
Till,  breaking  in  upon  the  dying  strain, 
A  rending  o'er  his  head  begins  the  fray  again. 

Meanwhile,  uncertain  what  to  do, 
And  oftentimes  compelled  to  halt, 
The  horses  cautiously  pursue 
Their  way,  without  mishap  or  fault  ; 
And  now  have  reached  that  pile  of  stones, 
Heaped  over  brave  King  Dunmail's  bones  ; 
He  who  had  once  supreme  command, 
Last  king  of  rocky  Cumberland  ; 
His  bones,  and  those  of  all  his  power, 
Slain  here  in  a  disastrous  hour  ! 

When,    passing    through    this    narrow 
Stony,  and  dark,  and  desolate,  [strait, 

Benjamin  can  faintly  hear 
A  voice  that  comes  from  some  one  near, 
A  female  voice  : — "  W'hoe'er  you  be, 
Stop,"  it  exclaimed,  "and  pity  me  !" 
And  less  in  pity  than  in  wonder, 
Amid  the  darkness  and  the  thunder, 
The  waggoner,  with  prompt  command, 
Summons  his  horses  to  a  stand. 

The  voice,  to  move  commiseration, 
Prolonged  its  earnest  supplication — 
"  This  storm  that  beats  so  furiously — 
This  dreadful  place  !  oh,  pity  me  I 

While  this  was  said,  with  sobs  between, 
And  many  tears,  but  all  unseen, 
There  came  a  flash — a  startling  glare, 
And  all  Scat-Sandal  was  laid  bare  ! 


'Tisnot  a  time  for  nice  suggestion, 
And  Benjamin,  without  further  question, 
Taking  her  for  some  way-worn  rover, 
Said,  "  Mount,  and  get  you  under  cover  !" 

Another  voice,  in  tone  as  hoarse 
As  a  swoln  brook  with  rugged  course, 
Cried  out,  ' '  Good  brother,  why  so  fast  ? 
I've  had  a  glimpse  of  you. — avast ! 
Or,  since  it  suits  you  to  /-"e  Civil, 
Take  her  at  once — for  r  jod  and  evil !" 

"  It  is  my  husband,'  softly  said 
The  woman,  as  if  half  afraid  : 
By  this  time  she  was  snug  within, 
Through  help  of  honest  Benjamin  ; 
She  and  her  babe,  which  to  her  breast 
With  thankfulness  the  mother  pressed  ; 
And  now  the  same  strong  voice  more  near 
Said  cordially,  "  My  fiiend,  what  cheer? 
Rough  doings  these  !  as  God's  my  judge, 
The  sky  owes  somebody  a  grudge  ! 
We've  had  in  half  an  hour  or  less 
A  twelvemonth's  terror  and  distress  !" 

Then  Benjamin  entreats  the  man 
Would  mount,  too,  quickly  as  he  can: 
The  sailor,  sailor  now  no  more, 
But  such  he  had  been  heretofore, 
To  courteous  Benjamin  replied, 
"  Go  you  your  way,  and  mind  not  me; 
Fcr  I  must  have,  whate'er  betide, 
My  ass  and  fifty  things  beside, — 
Go,  and  I'll  follow  speedily  !" 

The  waggon  moves — and  with  its  load 
Descends  along  the  sloping  road  ; 
And  to  a  little  tent  hard  by 
Turns  the  sailor  instantly ; 
For  when,  at  closing-in  of  day, 
The  family  had  come  that  way, 
Green  pasture  and  the  soft  warm  air 
Had  tempted  them  to  settle  there. 
Green  is  the  grass  for  beast  to  graze, 
Around  the  stones  of  Dunmail-raise  \ 

The  sailor  gathers  up  his  bed, 
Takes  down  the  canvas  overhead  ; 
And,  after  farewell  to  the  place, 
A  parting  word — though  not  of  grace, 
Pursues,  with  ass  and  all  his  store, 
The  way  the  waggon  went  before. 


CANTO   II. 

If  Wytheburn's  modest  house  of  prayer, 
As  lowly  as  the  lowliest  dwelling, 
Had,  with  its  belfry's  humble  stock, 
A  little  pair  that  hang  in  air, 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Been  mistress  also  of  a  clock, 
(And  one,  too,  not  in  crazy  plight) 
Twelve  strokes  that  clock  would  have  been 

telling 
Under  the  brow  of  old  Helvellyn — 
Its  bead-roll  of  midnight, 
Then,  when  the  hero  of  my  tale 
Was  passing  by,  and  down  the  vale 
(The  vale  now  silent,  hushed  I  ween, 
As  if  a  storm  had  never  been) 
Proceeding  with  an  easy  mind ; 
While  he,  who  had  been  left  behind, 
Intent  to  use  his  utmost  haste, 
Gained  ground  upon  the  Waggon  fast, 
And  gives  another  lusty  cheer  ; 
For  spite  of  rumbling  of  the  wheels, 
A  welcome  greeting  he  can  hear  ; — 
It  is  a  fiddle  in  its  glee 
Dinning  from  the  Cherry  Tree  ! 

Thence  the  sound — the  light  is  there — 
As  Benjamin  is  now  aware, 
Who,  to  his  inward  thoughts  confined, 
Had  almost  reached  the  festive  door, 
When,  startled  by  the  sailor's  roar, 
He  hears  a  sound  and  sees  the  light. 
And  in  a  moment  calls  to  mind 
That  'tis  the  village  Merry-night  !* 

Although  before  in  no  dejection, 
At  this  insidious  recollection 
His  heart  with  sudden  joy  is  filled, — 
His  ears  are  by  the  music  thrilled, 
His  eyes  take  pleasure  in  the  road 
flittering  before  him  bright  and  broad  ; 
And  Benjamin  is  wet  and  cold, 
And  there  are  reasons  manifold    [yearning 
That  make  the  good,  towards  which  he's 
Look  fairly  like  a  lawful  earning. 

Nor  has  thought  time  to  come  and  go, 
To  vibrate  between  yes  and  no  ; 
"  For,"  cries  the  sailor,  "  glorious  chance 
That  blew  us  hither  !  Let  him  dance 
Who  can  or  will ; — my  honest  soul 
Our  treat  shall  be  a  friendly  bowl !" 
He  draws  him  to  the  door — "  Come  in, 
Come,  come,"  cries  he  to  Benjamin; 
And  Benjamin — ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Gave  the  word, — the  horses  heard 
And  halted,  though  reluctantly. 

"  Blithe  souls  and  lightsome  hearts  have 
Feasting  at  the  Cherry  Tree  !"  [we 


*  A  term  well  known  in  the  north  of  England, 
•nd  applied  to  rural  festivals  where  young  per- 
sons  meet   in   the  evening  for  the  purpose  of  I  tic  to  the  agreeable  duty  of  saluting  his  part- 
dancing.  I  ner. 


This  was  the  outside  proclamation., 

This  was  the  inside  salutation  ; 

What  bustling — jostling — high  and  low  i 

A  universal  overflow  , 

What  tankards  foaming  from  the  tap  ! 

What  store  of  cakes  in  every  lap  ! 

What  thumping — stumping — over-head ! 

The  thunder  had  not  been  more  busy : 

With  such  a  stir,  you  would  have  said, 

This  little  place  may  well  be  dizzy ! 

'Tis  who  can  dance  with  greatest  vigour  — 

'Tis    what     can    be   most    prompt   and 

eager ; 
As  if  it  heard  the  fiddle's  call, 
The  pewter  clatters  on  the  wall ; 
The  very  bacon  shows  its  feeling, 
Swinging  from  the  smoky  ceiling ! 

A  steaming  bowl — a  blazing  fire — 
What  greater  good  can  heart  desire  ? 
'Twere  worth  a  wise  man's  while  to  try 
The  utmost  anger  of  the  sky  ; 
To  seek  for  thoughts  of  painful  cast, 
If  such  be  the  amends  at  last. 
Now,  should  you  think  I  judge  amiss, 
The  Cherry  Tree  shows  proof  of  this; 
For  soon,  of  all  the  happy  there, 
Our  travellers  are  the  happiest  pair. 
All  care  with  Benjamin  is  gone — 
A  Caesar  past  the  Rubicon  ! 
He  thinks  not  of  his  long,  long  strife  ;— 
The  sailor  man,  by  nature  gay, 
Hath  no  resolves  to  throw  away  ; 
And  he  hath  now  forgot  his  wife, 
Hath  quite  forgotten  her — or  may  be 
Deems  that  she  is  happier,  laid 
Within  that  warm  and  peaceful  bed  ; 
Under  cover,  terror  over, 
Sleeping  by  her  sleeping  baby. 

With  bowl  in  hand,  (it  may  not  stand,? 
Gladdest  of  the  gladsome  band, 
Amid  their  own  delight  and  fun, 
They  hear — vhen  every  dance  is  done — 
They  hear — »hen  every  fit  is  o'er — 
The  fiddle's  squeaks — that  call  to  bliss, 
Ever  followed  by  a  kiss  ; 
They  envy  not  the  happy  lot, 
But  enjoy  their  own  the  more  .' 

While  thus  our  jocund  travellers  fare, 
Up  springs  the  sailor  from  his  chair — 


t  At  the  close  of  each  strathspey,  or  jig,  a 
particular  note  from  the  fiddle  summons  the  rus- 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


67 


Limps  (for  I  might  have  told  before 
That  he  was  lame)  across  the  floor — 
Is  gone — returns — and  with  a  prize  ! 
With  what  ?  a  ship  of  lusty  size ; 
A  gallant  stately  man  of  war, 
Fixed  on  a  smoothly-sliding  car. 
Surprise  to  all,  but  most  surprise 
To  Benjamin,  who  rubs  his  eyes, 
Not  knowing  that  he  had  befriended 
A  man  so  gloriously  attended  ! 

"  This,"  cries  the  sailor,  "  a  third-rate  is, 
Stand  back,  and  you  shall  see  her  gratis  ! 
This  was  the  flag-ship  at  the  Nile, 
The  Vanguard — you  may  smirk  and  smile, 
But,  pretty  maid,  if  you  look  near, 
You'll  find  you've  much  in  little  here  ! 
A  nobler  ship  did  never  swim, 
And  you  shall  see  her  in  full  trim: 
I'll  set,  my  friends,  to  do  you  honour, 
Set  every  inch  of  sail  upon  her." 
So  said,  so  done  ;  and  masts,  sails,  yards, 
He  names  them  all ;  and  interlards 
His  speech  with  uncouth  terms  of  art, 
Accomplished  in  the  showman's  part; 
And  then,  as  from  a  sudden  check, 
I'ries  out — "  'Tis  there,  the  quarter-deck 
Un  which  brave  Admiral  Nelson  stood — 
A  sight  that  would  have  roused  your  blood  ! 
One  eye  he  had,  which,  bright  as  ten, 
Burnt  like  a  fire  among  his  men  ; 
Let  this  be  land,  and  that  be  sea, 
Here  lay  the  French — and  thus  came  we  !" 

Hushed  was  by  this  the  fiddle's  sound, 
The  dancers  all  were  gathered  round, 
And,  such  the  stillness  of  the  house, 
You  might  have  heard  a  nibbling  mouse  ; 
While,  borrowing  helps  where'er  he  may, 
The  sailor  through  the  story  runs 
Of  ships  to  ships  and  guns  to  guns  ; 
And  does  his  utmost  to  display 
The  dismal  conflict,  and  the  might 
And  terror  of  that  wondrous  night  ! 
"  A  bowl,  a  bowl  of  double  measure," 
Cries  Benjamin,  "  a  draught  of  length, 
To  Nelson,  England's  pride  and  treasure, 
Her  bulwark  and  her  tower  of  strength  !" 
When  Benjamin  had  seized  the  bowl, 
The  mastiff  from  beneath  the  waggon, 
Where  he  lay,  watchful  as  a  dragon, 
Rattled  his  chain — 'twas  all  in  vain, 
For  Benjamin,  triumphant  soul ! 
He  heard  the  monitory  growl ; 
Heard — and  in  opposition  quaffed 
A  deep,  determined,  desperate  draught  ! 
Nor  did  the  battered  tar  forget, 
Or  flinch  from  what  he  deemed  his  debt  ; 


Then,  like  a  hero  crowned  with  laurel, 
Back  to  her  place  the  ship  he  led  ; 
Wheeled  her  back  in  full  apparel ; 
And  so,  flag  flying  at  mast-head, 
Re-yoked  her  to  the  ass  : — anon, 
Cries  Benjamin,  "  We  must  be  gone." 
Thus,  after  two  hours'  hearty  stay, 
Again  behold  them  on  their  way  ! 


CANTO  III. 

Right  gladly  had  the  horses  stirred, 
When  they  the  wished-for  greeting  heard, 
The  whip's  loud  notice  from  the  door, 
That  they  were  free  to  move  once  more. 
You  think  these  doings  must  have  bred 
In  them  disheartening  doubts  and  dread; 
No,  not  a  horse  of  all  the  eight, 
Although  it  be  a  moonless  night, 
Fears  either  for  himself  or  freight; 
For  this  they  know,  (and  let  it  hide, 
In  part,  the  offences  of  their  guide,) 
That  Benjamin,  with  clouded  brains, 
Is  worth  the  best  with  all  their  pains  ; 
And,  if  they  had  a  prayer  to  make, 
The  prayer  would  be  that  they  may  take 
With  him  whatever  comes  in  course, 
The  better  fortune  or  the  worse  ;        [them 
That  no  one  else  may  have  business  neai 
And,  drunk  or  sober,  he  may  steer  them. 

So,  forth  in  dauntless  mood  they  fare, 
And  with  them  goes  the  guardian  pair. 

Now,  heroes,  for  the  true  commolion, 
The  triumph  of  your  late  devotion  ! 
Can  aught  on  earth  impede  delight, 
Still  mounting  to  a  higher  height; 
And  higher  still — a  greedy  flight  ! 
Can  ar>^  low-born  care  pursue  her, 
Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her  ? 
No  notion  have  they — not  a  thought, 
That  is  from  joyless  regions  brought  1 
And,  while  they  coast  the  silent  lake, 
Their  inspiration  1  partake; 
Share  their  empyreal  spirits — yea, 
With  their  enraptured  vision,  see — 
O  fancy — what  a  jubilee  ! 
What  shifting  pictures — clad  in  gleairi 
Of  colour  bright  as  feverish  dreams  ! 
Earth,  spangled  sky,  and  lake  serene, 
Involved  and  restless  all— a  scene 
Pregnant  with  mutual  exaltation, 
Rich  change,  and  multiplied  creation  ! 
This  sight  to  me  the  muse  imparts  ; — 
And  then,  what  kindness  in  their  hearts  ! 
What  tears  of  rapture,  what  vow-making. 
Profound  entreaties,  and  hand-shaking  ! 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


What  solemn,  vacant  interlacing, 
As  if  they'd  fall  asleep  embracing  ! 
Then,  in  the  turbulence  of  glee, 
And  in  the  excess  of  amity, 
Savs  Banjamin,  "That  ass  of  thine, 
He  spoils  thy  sport,  and  hinders  mine  ; 
If  he  were  tethered  to  the  waggon, 
He'd  drag  as  well  what  he  is  dragging; 
And  we,  as  brother  should  with  brother, 
Might  trudge  it  alongside  each  other?" 

Forthwith,  obedient  to  command, 
The  horses  made  a  quiet  stand  ; 
And  to  the  waggon's  skirts  was  tied 
The  creature,  by  the  mastiff's  side 
(The  mastiff  not  well  pleased  to  be 
So  very  near  such  company). 
This  new  arrangement  made,  the  wain 
Through  the  still  night  proceeds  again  : 
No  moon  had  risen  her  light  to  lend; 
But  indistinctly  may  be  kenned 
The  Vanguard,  following  close  behind, 
Sails  spread,  as  il  to  catch  the  wind ! 

' '  Thy  wife  and  child  are  snug  and  warm, 
Thy  ship  will  travel  without  harm  ; 
I   like,"  said  Benjamin,  "her  shape  and 

stature  ; 
And  this  of  mine — this  bulky  creature 
Of  which  I  have  the  steering — this, 
Seen  fairly,  is  not  much  amiss  ! 
We  want  your  streamers,  friend,  you  know  ; 
But  altogether,  as  we  go, 
We  make  a  kind  cf  handsome  show  ! 
Among  these  hills  from  first  to  last, 
We've  weathered  many  a  furious  blast; 
Hard  passage  forcing  on,  with  head 
Against  the  storm,  and  canvas  spread. 
I  hate  a  boaster — but  to  thee 
Will  say't,  who  know'st  both  land  and  sea, 
The  unluckiest  hulk  that  sails  the  brine 
Is  hardly  worse  beset  than  mine, 
When  cross  winds  on  her  quarter  beat; 
And,  fairly  lifted  from  my  feet, 
I  stagger  onward — Heaven  knows  how — 
But  not  so  pleasantly  as  now — 
Poor  pilot  I,  by  snows  confounded, 
And  many  a  foundrous  pit  surrounded ! 
Vet  here  we  are,  by  night  and  day      [way, 
Grinding  through  rough  and  smooth  our 
Through  foul  and  fair  our  task  fulfilling; 
And  long  shall  be  so  yet — God  willing  !" 

"Ay,  "said  the  tar,    "through  fair  and 
foul- 
But  save  us  from  yon  screeching  owl !" 
That  instant  was  begun  a  fray 
Which  called  their  thoughts  another  way; 


The  mastiff,  ill-conditioned  carl ! 
What  must  he  do  but  growl  and  snari: 
Still  more  and  more  dissatisfied 
With  the  meek  comrade  at  his  side? 
Till,  not  incensed,  though  put  to  proof, 
The  ass,  uplifting  a  hind  hoof, 
Salutes  the  mastiff  on  the  head  ; 
And  so  were  better  manners  bred, 
And  all  was  calmed  and  quieted. 

"Yon    screech-owl,"    says    the    sailor, 
turning 
Back  to  his  former  cause  of  mourning, 
"  Yon  owl ! — pray  God  that  all  be  well ! 
Tis  worse  than  any  funeral  bell  ; 
As  sure  as  I've  the  gift  of  sight, 
We  shall  be  meeting  ghosts  to-night  !" 
Said  Benjamin,  "  This  whip  shall  lay' 
A  thousand  if  they  cross  our  way. 
I  know  that  wanton's  noisy  station, 
I  know  him  and  his  occupation  ; 
The  jolly  bird  hath  learned  his  cheer 
On  the  banks  of  Windermere  ; 
Where  a  tribe  of  them  make  merry, 
Mocking  the  man  that  keeps  the  ferry. 
Halloing  from  an  open  throat, 
Like  travellers  shouting  for  a  boat. 
The  tricks  he  learned  at  Windermere 
This  vagrant  owl  is  playing  here — 
That  is  the  worst  of  his  employment; 
He's  in  the  height  of  his  enjoyment !" 

This  explanation  stilled  the  alarm, 
Cured  the  foreboder  like  a  charm  ; 
This,  and  the  manner,  and  the  voice, 
Summoned  the  srilorto  rejoice  ; 
His  heart  is  up — he  fears  no  evil 
From  life  or  death,  from  man  or  devil ; 
He  wheeled — and,  making  many  stops, 
Brandished  his  crutch  against  the  moun- 
tain tops; 
And,  while  he  talked  of  blows  and  scars, 
Benjamin,  among  the  stars, 
Beheld  a  dancing — and  a  glancing; 
Such  retreating  and  advancing 
As,  I  ween,  was  never  seen 
In  bloodiest  battle  since  the  days  of  Mars 


CANTO  IV. 

Thus  they,  with  freaks  of  proud  delight, 
Beguile  2he  remnant  of  the  night ; 
And  many  a  snatch  of  jovial  song 
Regales  them  as  they  wind  along  ; 
While  to  the  music  from  on  high, 
The  echoes  make  a  glad  reply. 
But  the  sage  muse  the  revel  heeds 
No  farther  than  her  story  needs; 


WBMS  FOUNDED  OX  Tlir:  AFFEOMOtfS. 


m 


Nor  will  she  servilely  attend 
The  loitering  journey  to  its  end. 
Blithe  spirits  of  her  own  impel 
The  muse  who  scents  the  morning  air, 
To  take  of  this  transported  pair 
A  brief  and  unreproved  farewell  ; 
To  quit  the  slow-paced  waggon's  side, 
And  wander  down  yon  hawthorn  dell, 
With  murmuring  Greta  for  her  guide. 
There  doth  she  ken  the  awful  form 
Of  Raven-crag — black  as  a  storm- 
Glimmering  through  the  twilight  pale  ; 
And  Gimmer-crag,*  his  tall  twin-brother, 
Each  peering  forth  to  meet  the  other  ; — 
And,  while  she  roves  through  St.  John's 

Vale, 
Along  the  smooth  unpathwayed  plain, 
By  sheep-track,  or  through  cottage  lane, 
Where  no  disturbance  comes  to  intrude 
Upon  the  pensive  solitude, 
Her  unsuspecting  eye,  perchance, 
With  the  rude  shepherd's  favoured  glance, 
Beholds  the  faeries  in  array, 
Whose  party-coloured  garments  gay 
The  silent  company  betray  ; 
Red,  green,  and  blue  ;  a  moment's  sight ! 
For  Skiddaw-top  with  rosy  light 
Is  touched— and  all  the  band  take  flight. 
Fly  also,  muse  !  and  from  the  dell 
Mount  to  the  ridge  of  Nathdale  Fell  ; 
Thence  look  thou  forth  o'er  wood  and 

lawn, 
Hoar  with  the  frost-like  dews  of  dawn  ; 
Across  yon  meadowy  bottom  look, 
Where  close  fogs  hide  their  parent  brook  ; 
And  see,  beyond  that  hamlet  small. 
The  ruined  towers  of  Threlkeld  Hall, 
Lurking  in  a  double  shade, 
By  trees  and  lingering  twilight  made  ! 
There,  at  Blencathara's  rugged  feet, 
Ijir  Lancelot  gave  a  safe  retreat 
To  noble  Clifford  ;  from  annoy 
Concealed  the  persecuted  boy, 
Well  pleased  in  rustic  garb  to  feed 
His  flock,  and  pipe  on  shepherd's  reed  ; 
Among  this  multitude  of  hills, 
Crags,  woodlands,  waterfalls,  and  rills  ; 
Which  soon  the  morning  shall  infold, 
From  east  to  west,  in  ample  vest 
Of  massy  gloom  and  radiance  bold. 

The  mists,  that  o'er  the  streamlet's  bed 
Hung  low,  begin  to  rise  and  spread  ; 
Even  while  I  speak,  their  skirts  of  gray 
Are  smitten  by  a  silver  ray  ; 


•  The  crag  of  the  ewe-lamb. 


And  lo  ! — up  Castrigg's  naked  steep 

(Where,  smoothly  urged,  the  vapours  swrcfj 

Along — and  scatter  and  divide 

Like  fleecy  clouds  self-multiplied) 

The  stately  waggon  is  ascending 

With  faithful  Benjamin  attending, 

Apparent  now  beside  his  team — 

Now  lost  amid  a  glittering  steam. 

And  with  him  goes  his  sailor  friend, 

By  this  time  near  their  journey's  end, 

And,  after  their  high-minded  riot, 

Sickening  into  thoughtful  quiet ; 

As  if  the  morning's  pleasant  hour 

Had  for  their  joys  a  killing  power. 

They  are  drooping,  weak,  and  dull ; 
But  the  horses  stretch  and  pull  ; 
With  increasing  vigour  climb, 
Eager  to  repair  lost  time  ; 
Whether  by  their  own  desert, 
Knowing  there  is  cause  for  shame, 
They  are  labouring  to  avert 
At  least  a  portion  of  the  blame, 
Which  full  surely  will  alight 
Upon  his  head,  whom,  in  despite 
Of  all  his  faults  they  love  the  best  , 
Whether  for  him  they  are  distressed  ; 
Or,  by  length  of  fasting  roused, 
Are  impatient  to  be  housed; 
Up  against  the  hill  they  strain — 
Tugging  at  the  iron  chain — 
Tugging  all  with  might  and  main- 
Last  and  foremost,  every  horse 
To  the  utmost  of  his  force  ! 
And  the  smoke  and  respiration 
Rising  like  an  exhalation, 
Blends  with  the  mist,— a  moving  shroud 
To  form — an  undissolving  cloud  ; 
Which,  with  slant  ray,  the  merry  sun 
Takes  delight  to  play  upon. 
Never  surely  old  Apollo 
He,  or  other  god  as  old, 
Of  whom  in  story  we  are  told, 
Who  had  a  favourite  to  follow 
Through  a  battle  or  elsewhere, 
Round  the  object  of  his  care, 
In  a  time  of  peril,  threw, 
Veil  of  such  celestial  hue  ; 
Interposed  so  bright  a  screen 
Him  and  his  enemies  between  ! 

Alas,  what  boots  it?— who  can  hide 
When  the  malicious  fates  are  bent 
On  working  out  an  ill  intent  ? 
Can  destiny  be  turned  aside  ? 
No — sad  progress  of  my  story  ! 
Benjamin,  this  outward  glory 


TO 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Cannot  shield  thee  from  thy  master, 

Who  from  Keswick  has  pricked  forth, 

Sour  and  surly  as  the  north  ; 

And,  in  fear  of  some  disaster, 

Comes  to  give  what  help  he  may, 

Or  to  hear  what  thou  canst  say  ; 

If,  as  needs  he  must  forebode, 

Thou  hast  loitered  on  the  road  !     [flight- 

His   doubts — his   fears    may   now   take 

The  wished-for  object  is  in  sight ; 

Yet,  trust  the  muse,  it  rather  hath 

Stirred  him  up  to  livelier  wrath  ; 

Which  he  stifles,  moody  man  ! 

With  all  the  patience  that  he  can  ! 

To  the  end  that  at  your  meeting 

He  may  give  thee  decent  greeting. 

There  he  is — resolved  to  stop, 
Till  the  waggon  gains  the  top  ; 
But  stop  he  cannot — must  advance  : 
Him  Benjamin,  with  lucky  glance, 
Espies,  and  instantly  is  ready, 
Self-collected,  poised,  and  steady  ; 
And,  to  be  the  better  seen, 
Issues  from  his  radiant  shroud, 
From  his  close  attending  cloud. 
With  careless  air  and  open  mien. 
Erect  his  port,  and  firm  his  going  ; 
So  struts  yon  cock  that  now  is  crowing  ; 
And  the  morning  light  in  grace 
Strikes  upon  his  lifted  face, 
Hurrying  the  pallid  hue  away 
That  might  his  trespasses  betray. 
But  what  can  all  avail  to  clear  him, 
Or  what  need  of  explanation, 
Parley,  or  interrogation  ? 
For  the  master  sees,  alas  ! 
That  unhappy  figure  near  him, 
Limping  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 
Where  the  road  it  fringes,  sweet, 
Soft  and  cool  to  way-worn  feet ; 
^nd,  oh,  indignity  !  an  ass, 
By  his  noble  mastiff's  side, 
Tethered  to  the  waggon's  tail : 
And  the  ship,  in  all  her  pride, 
Following  after  in  full  sail ! 
Not  to  speak  of  babe  and  mother  ; 
Who,  contented  with  each  other, 
And,  snug  as  birds  in  leafy  arbour, 
Vind,  within,  a  blessed  harbour  ! 

With  eager  eyes  the  master  pries  : 
Looks  in  and  out — and  through  and 

through  ; 
Says  nothing — till  at  last  he  spies 
A  wound  upon  the  mastiff's  head, 
A  wound — where  plainly  might  be  read 
What  feats  an  ass's  hoof  can  do  ! 


But  drop  the  rest  : — this  aggravation, 

This  complicated  provocation, 

A  hoard  of  grievances  unsealed  ; 

All  past  forgiveness  it  repealed  ; — 

And  thus,  and  through  distempered  blood 

On  both  sides,  Benjamin  the  good, 

The  patient,  and  the  tender-hearted, 

Was  from  his  team  and  waggon  parted  , 

When  duty  of  that  day  was  o'er, 

Laid  down  his  whip — and  served  no  more. 

Nor  could  the  waggon  long  survive 

Which  Benjamin  had  ceased  to  drive  : 

It  lingered  on  ; — guide  after  guide 

Ambitiously  the  office  tried  ; 

But  each  unmanageable  hill 

Called  for  his  patience  and  his  skill  ; — 

And  sure  it  is,  that  through  this  night, 

And  what  the  morning  brought  to  light, 

Two  losses  had  we  to  sustain, 

We  lost  both  Waggoner  and  Wain  ! 


Accept,  O  friend,  for  praise  or  blame, 

The  gift  of  this  adventurous  song  ; 

A  record  which  I  dared  to  frame, 

Though  timid  scruples  checked  me  long  ; 

They  checked  me — and  I  left  the  theme 

Untouched — in  spite  of  many  a  gleam 

Of  fancy  which  thereon  was  shed, 

Like  pleasant  sunbeams  shifting  still 

Upon  the  side  of  a  distant  hill : 

But  nature  might  not  be  gainsaid  ; 

For  what  I  have  and  what  I  miss 

I  sing  of  these — it  makes  my  bliss  ! 

Nor  is  it  I  who  play  the  part, 

But  a  shy  spirit  in  my  heart, 

That  comes  and  goes — will  sometimes  leap 

From  hiding-places  ten  years  deep  ; 

Or  haunts  me  with  familiar  face — 

Returning,  like  a  ghost  unlaid, 

Until  the  debt  I  owe  be  paid. 

Forgive  me,  then  ;  for  I  had  been 

On  friendly  terms  with  this  machine : 

In  him,  while  he  was  wont  to  trace 

Our  roads,   through  many  a  long  year's 

A  living  almanack  had  we  :  [space, 

We  had  a  speaking  diary, 

That,  in  this  uneventful  place, 

Gave  to  the  days  a  mark  and  name 

By  which  we  knew  them  when  they  came 

Yes,  I,  and  all  about  me  here, 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year, 

Had  seen  him  through  the  mountains  go, 

In  pomp  of  mist  or  pomp  of  snow, 

Majestically  huge  and  slow  : 

Or,  with  a  milder  grace  adorning 

The  landscape  of  a  summer's  morning  ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


71 


While  Grasmere  smoothed  her  liquid  plain 

The  moving  image  to  detain  ; 

And  mighty  Fairfield,  with  a  chime 

Of  echoes,  to  his  march  kept  time  ; 

When  little  other  business  stirred, 

And  little  other  sound  was  heard  ; 

In  that  delicious  hour  of  balm, 

Stillness,  solitude,  and  calm, 

While  yet  the  valley  is  arrayed, 

On  this  side  with  a  sober  shade  ; 

On  tliat  is  prodigally  bright — 

Crag,  lawn,  and  wood— with  rosy  light. 

But  most  of  all,  thou  lordly  wain  ! 

I  wish  to  have  thee  here  again, 

When  windows  flap  and  chimney  roars, 

And  all  is  dismal  out  of  doors  ; 

And  sitting  by  my  fire,  1  see 

Eight  sorry  carts,  no  less  a  train  ! 

Unworthy  successors  of  thee, 


Come   straggling  through  the  wind    am! 
And  oft,  as  they  pass  slowly  on,         [rain 
Beneath  my  window— one  by  one — 
See,  perched  upon  the  naked  height 
The  summit  of  a  cumbrous  freight, 
A  single  traveller — and  there 
Another — then  perhaps  a  pair — 
The  lame,  the  sickly,  and  the  old  ; 
Men,  women,  heartless  with  the  cold ; 
And  babes  in  wet  and  starveling  plight ; 
Which  once,  be  weather  as  it  might, 
Had  still  a  nest  within  a  nest, 
Thy  shelter — and  their  mother's  breast  I 
Then  most  of  all,  then  far  the  most, 
Do  I  regret  what  we  have  lost ; 
Am  grieved  for  that  unhappy  sin 
Which  robbed  us  of  good  Benjamin  ; — 
And  of  his  stately  charge,  which  none 
Could  keep  alive  when  he  was  gone  ! 


Jj0*ms  of  %  Jfatws. 


A  MORNING  EXERCISE. 

Fancy,   who    leads    the  pastimes  of  the 

glad, 
Full  oft  is  pleased  a  wayward  dart  to  throw  ; 
Sending  sad  shadows  after  things  not  sad, 
Peopling  the  harmless  fields  with  signs  of 

woe  ; 
Beneath  her  sway,  a  simple  forest  cry 
Becomes  an  echo  of  man's  misery. 

Blithe  ravens  croak  of  death  ;  and  when 
the  owl 
Tries  his  two  voices  for  a  favourite  strain— 
Tu-whit — Tu-whoo!  the  unsuspecting  fowl 
Forebodes  mishap,  or  seems  but  to  com- 
plain ; 
Fancy,  intent  to  harass  and  annoy, 
Can  thus  pervert  the  evidence  of  joy. 

Through    border  wilds    where    naked 

Indians  stray, 
Myriads  of  notes  attest  her  subtle  skill ; 
A    feathered  task-master    cries    "Work 

away  ! "  [Will  !"* 

And,    in    thy     iteration,    "  Whip-poor- 


•  See   Waterton's    "  Wand«rings   in     South 
America." 


Is  heard  the  spirit  of  a  toil-worn  slave, 
Lashed  out  of  life,  not  quiet  in  the  grave  ! 

What  wonder?  at  her  bidding,   ancient 

lays 
Steeped  in  dire  griefs  the  voice  of  Philomel ; 
And  that  fleet  messenger  of  summer  days, 
The  swallow,  twittered  subject  to  like  spell  • 
But  ne'er  could  fancy  bend  the  buoyant 

lark 
To  melancholy  service— hark  !  oh,  hark  ! 

The  daisy  sleeps  upon  the  dewy  lawn, 
Not  lifting  yet  the  head  that  evening  bowed ; 
But  he  is  risen,  a  later  star  of  dawn, 
Glittering    and    twinkling  near  yon  rosy 

cloud  ; 
Bright  gem  instinct  with  music,  vocal  spark  ; 
The  happiest  bird  that  sprang  out  of  the 

ark! 

Hail,  blest  above  all  kinds  —  Supremely 
skilled  [low, 

Restless  with   fixed  to  balance,  high  with 

Thou  leav'st  the  halcyon  free  her  hopes  to 
build 

On  such  forbearance  as  the  deep  may  show ; 

Perpetual  flight,  unchecked  by  earthlj 
ties, 

Leav'st  to  the  wandering  bird  of  paradi?- 
II 


72 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Faithful,  though  swift  as  lightning,  the 
meek  dove  ; 
Yet  more  hath  nature  reconciled  in  thee  ; 
So  constant  with  thy  downward  eye  of  love, 
Yet,  in  aerial  singleness,  so  free ; 
So  humble,  yet  so  ready  to  rejoice 
In  power  of  wing  and  never-wearied  voice  ! 

Howwould  it  pleaseold  ocean  to  partake, 
With  sailors  longing  for  a  breeze  in  vain, 
The  harmony  that  thou  best  lov'st  to  make 
Where    earth    resembles   most  his  blank 

domain !  [ear 

Urania's  self  might  welcome  with  pleased 
These  matins  mounting  towards  her  native 

sphere. 

Chanter  by  heaven  attracted,  whom  no 

bars  [suit, 

To  day-light  known  deter  from  that  pur- 

'Tis  well  that  some  sage  instinct,  when  the 

stars  [mute : 

Come  forth  at  evening,  keeps  thee  still  and 

For  not  an  eyelid  could  to  sleep  incline 

Wert  thou  among  them,  singing  as  they 

shine  1 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

"  Her*  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
I  could  some  instruction  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring. 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustelling  ; 
By  a  daisy  whose  leaves  spread 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed  ; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree  ; 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man." — G.  Wither. 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
From  hill  to  hill  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent, 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy  ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  nature's  love  partake 

Of  thee,  sweet  daisy  ! 

When  winter  decks  his  few  gray  hairs, 
Thee  in  the  scanty  wreath  he  wears  : 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 
That  she  may  sun  thee  ; 


*  His  muse. 


Whole  summer  fields  are  thine  by  right ; 
And  autumn,  melancholy  wight ! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 
When  rains  are  on  thee. 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane  ; 
If  welcome  once  thou  count 'st  it  gain  ; 

Thou  art  not  daunted, 
Nor  car'st  if  thou  be  set  at  nought 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  zephyrs  choose  ; 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling ; 
Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame  ■ 
Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a  claim 

The  poet's  darling. 

If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly, 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare  ; 
He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art  ! — a  friend  at  hand,  to  scare 

His  melancholy. 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 

Some  apprehension ; 
Some  steady  love  ;  some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight  ; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right  ; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  thee  should  turn.. 

I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 

A  lowlier  pleasure  ; 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life,  our  nature  breeds  ; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

When,  smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 

I  see  thee  rise,  alert  and  gay, 

Then,  cheerful  flower  !  my  spirits  play 

With  kindred  gladness  : 
And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


73 


And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing  ; 
An  instinct  call  it,  a  blind  sense  ; 
A  happy,  genial  influence, 
Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going. 

Child  of  the  year  !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  course,  bold  lover  of  the  sun, 
And  cheerful  when  the  day's  begun 

As  morning  leveret, 
Thy  long-lost  praise*  thou  shalt  regain  ; 
Dear  sha.lt  thou  be  to  future  men 
As  in  old  time  ; — thou  not  in  vain, 

Art  nature's  favourite. 


A  whirl-plast  from  behind  the  hill 
Rushed  o'er  the  wood  with  startling  sound  ; 
Then — all  at  once  the  air  was  still, 
And  showers  of  hailstones  pattered  round. 
Where  leafless  oaks  towered  high  above, 
I  sat  within  an  undergrove 
Of  tallest  hollies,  tall  and  green  ; 
A  fairer  bower  was  never  seen. 
From  year  to  year  the  spacious  floor 
With  withered  leaves  is  covered  o'er, 
And  all  the  year  the  bower  is  green. 
But  see !  where'er  the  hailstones  drop, 
The  withered  leaves  all  skip  and  hop, 
There's  not  a  breeze — no  breath  of  air — 
Yet  here,  and  there,  and  every  where 
Along  the  floor,  beneath  the  shade 
By  those  embowering  hollies  made, 
The  leaves  in  myriads  jump  and  spring, 
As  if  with  pipes  and  music  rare 
Some  Robin  Good-fellow  were  there, 
And  all  those  leaves,  in  festive  glee, 
Were  dancing  to  the  minstrelsy. 


THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  thy  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat  ! 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 


One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest  ; 
Hail  to  thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion, 
Thou,  linnet  !  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  spirit  here  to-day, 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment  ; 
A  life,  a  presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair, 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Upon  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover  ; 
There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  sight  he  dazzles,  half  deceives, 
A  bird  so  like  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage  eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes  ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  form  he  chose  to  feign, 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 


*  See,  in  Chaucer  and  the  elder  poets,  the 
honours  formerly  paid  to  this  flower. 


THE  CONTRAST. 

Within  her  gilded  cage  confined, 
I  saw  a  dazzling  belle, 
A  parrot  of  that  famous  kind 
Whose  name  is  nonpareil. 

Like  beads  of  glossy  jet  her  eyes  ; 
And,  smoothed  by  nature's  skill, 
With  pearl  or  gleaming  agate  vies 
Her  finely-curved  bill. 

Her  plumy  mantle's  living  hues 
In  mass  opposed  to  mass, 
Outshine  the  splendour  that  imbue? 
The  robes  of  pictured  glass. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  an  apter  mate 
Did  never  tempt  the  choice 
Of  feathered  thing  most  delicate 
In  figure  and  in  voice. 


74 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


But,  exiled  from  Australian  bowers, 
And  singleness  her  lot, 
She  trills  her  song  with  tutored  powers, 
Or  mocks  each  casual  note. 

No  more  of  pity  for  regrets 
With  which  she  may  have  striven  ! 
Now  but  in  wantonness  she  frets, 
Or  spite,  if  cause  be  given  ; 

Arch,  volatile,  a  sportive  bird 
By  social  glee  inspired  ; 
Ambitious  to  be  seen  or  heard, 
And  pleased  to  be  admired  ! 


This  moss-lined  shed,  green,  soft,  and  dry, 
Harbours  a  self-contented  wren, 
Not  shunning  man's  abode,  though  shy, 
Almost  as  thought  itself,  of  human  ken. 

Strange  places,  coverts  unendeared 
She  never  tried,  the  very  nest 
In  which  this  child  of  spring  was  reared, 
Is  warmed,  through  winter,  by  her  feathery 
breast. 

To  the  bleak  winds  she  sometimes  gives 
A  slender  unexpected  strain  ; 
That  tells  the  hermitess  still  lives,       [vain. 
Though  she  appear  not,  and  be  sought  in 

Say,  Dora !  tell  me  by  yon  placid  moon, 
If  called  to  choose  between  the  favoured 
pair  [saloon, 

Which  would   you  be, — the  bird   of  the 
By  lady  fingers  tended  with  nice  care, 
Caressed,  applauded,  upon  dainties  fed, 
Or  nature's  Darkling  of  this  mossy  shed  ? 


TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE.* 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies, 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises  ; 
Long  as  there's  a  sun  that  sets 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory  ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 
They  will  have  a  place  in  story  : 
There's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 
'Tis  the  little  celandine. 


*  Common  Pilewort. 


Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a  star  ; 
Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 
Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout  ! 
I'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 
Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 
Little  flower  ! — I'll  make  a  stir 
Like  a  great  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  elf 
Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself  ; 
Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 
I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 
'Twas  a  face  I  did  not  know  ; 
Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I  may, 
Fifty  greetings  in  a  day. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 
In  the  time  before  the  thrush 
Has  a  thought  about  its  nest, 
Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a  careless  prodigal  ; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we've  little  warmth,  or  none 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood  ! 
Travel  with  the  multitude  ; 
Never  heed  them  ;  I  aver 
That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers  ; 
But  the  thrifty  cottager, 
Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 
Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home  ; 
Spring  is  coming,  thou  art  come  ! 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly  unassuming  spirit ; 
Careless  of  thy  neighbourhood. 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane— there's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours  J 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen 
Whether  we  will  see  or  no  ; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien ; 
They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine, 
Little,  humble  celandine ! 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 
Scorned  and  slighted  upon  earth ! 
Herald  of  a  mighty  band, 
Of  a  joyous  train  ensuing, 


POFMf!  OF  TttE  FANCY. 


75 


Singing  at  my  heart's  command, 
In  the  lanes  my  thoughts  pursuing, 
I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove, 
Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I  love  ! 


TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 

When  they  lie  about  our  feet  : 

February  last,  my  heart 

First  at  sight  of  thee  was  glad  ; 

All  unheard  of  as  thou  art, 

Thou  must  needs,  I  think,  have  had, 

Celandine  !  and  long  ago, 

Praise  of  which  I  nothing  know. 

I  have  not  a  doubt  but  he, 
Whosoe'er  the  man  might  be, 
Who  the  first  with  pointed  rays 
(Workman  worthy  to  be  sainted) 
Set  the  sign-board  in  a  blaze, 
When  the  risen  sun  he  painted, 
Took  the  fancy  from  a  glance 
At  thy  glittering  countenance. 

Soon  as  gentle  breezes  bring 
News  of  winter's  vanishing, 
And  the  children  build  their  bowers, 
Sticking  'kerchief-plots  of  mould 
All  about  with  full-blown  flowers, 
Thick  as  sheep  in  shepherd's  fold  ! 
With  the  proudest  thou  art  there, 
Mantling  in  the  tiny  square. 

Often  have  I  sighed  to  measure 
By  myself  a  lonely  pleasure, 
Sighed  to  think,  I  read  a  book 
Only  read,  perhaps,  by  me  ; 
Yet  I  long  could  overlook 
Thy  bright  coronet  and  thee, 
And  thy  arch  and  wily  ways, 
And  thy  store  of  other  praise. 

Blithe  of  heart,  from  week  to  week 
Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek  ; 
While  the  patient  primrose  sits 
Like  a  beggar  in  the  cold, 
Thou,  a  flower  of  wiser  wits, 
Slipp'st  into  thy  sheltered  hold  ; 
Bright  as  any  of  the  train 
When  ye  all  are  out  again. 

Thou  art  not  beyond  the  moon, 
But  a  thing  "beneath  our  shoon  :" 
Let  the  bold  adventurer  thrid 
In  his  bark  the  poLir  oca  ; 


Rear  who  will  a  pyramid  ; 
Praise  it  is  enough  for  me, 
If  there  be  but  three  or  four 
Who  will  love  my  little  flower. 


THE  WATERFALL  AND  THE 

EGLANTINE. 

"  Begone,  thou  fond  presumptuous  elf," 

Exclaimed  a  thundering  voice, 

"  Nor  dare  to  thrust  thy  foolish  self 

Between  me  and  my  choice  !" 

A  small  cascade  fresh  swoln  with  snows 

Thus  threatened  a  poor  briar-rose, 

That,  all  bespattered  with  his  foam, 

And  dancing  high  and  dancing  low, 

Was  living,  as  a  child  might  know, 

In  an  unhappy  home. 

"  Dost  thou  presume  my  course  to  block? 

Off,  off !  or,  puny  thing  I 

I'll  hurl  thee  headlong  with  the  rock 

To  which  thy  fibres  cling." 

The  flood  was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 

The  patient  briar  suffered  long, 

Nor  did  he  utter  groan  or  sigh, 

Hoping  the  danger  would  be  past : 

But,  seeing  no  relief,  at  last 

He  ventured  to  reply. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  briar,  "  blame  me  not  ; 

Why  should  we  dwell  in  strife  ? 

We  who  in  this  sequestered  spot 

Once  lived  a  happy  life  I 

You  stirred  me  on  my  rocky  bed — 

What  pleasure  through  my  veins  you  spread/ 

The  summer  long,  from  day  to  day, 

My  leaves  you  freshened  and  bedewed  ; 

Nor  was  it  common  gratitude 

That  did  your  cares  repay. 

"  When  spring  came  on  with  bud  and  bell, 

Among  these  rocks  did  I 

Before  you  hang  my  wreaths,  to  tell 

The  gentle  days  were  nigh  I 

And  in  the  sultry  summer  hours, 

I  sheltered  you  with  leaves  and  flowers  ; 

And  in  my  leaves — now  shed  and  gone, 

The  linnet  lodged,  and  for  us  two 

Chanted  his  pretty  songs,  when  you 

Had  little  voice  or  none. 

"But  now   proud   thoughts   are  in   your 
What  grief  is  mine  you  see.  [breast — 

Ah  !  would  you  think,  even  yet  how  blest 
Together  we  might  be  ! 


?6 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Though  of  both  leaf  and  flower  bereft, 
Some  ornaments  to  me  are  left — 
Rich  store  of  scarlet  hips  is  mine, 
With  which  I  in  my  humble  way, 
Would  deck  you  many  a  winter's  day, 
A  happy  eglantine  !" 

What  more  he  said  I  cannot  tell, 
The  torrent  thundered  down  the  dell 
With  aggravated  haste  ; 
I  listened,  nor  aught  else  could  hear  ; 
The  briar  quaked,  and  much  I  fear 
Those,  tcents  were  his  last. 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  BROOM. 

A  PASTORAL. 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean 
Beside  the  babbling  rills  ; 
A  careful  student  he  had  been 
Among  the  woods  and  hills. 
One  winter's  night,  when  through  the  trees 
The  wind  was  roaring,  on  his  knees 
His  youngest  born  did  Andrew  hold : 
And  while  the  rest,  a  ruddy  quire, 
Were  seated  round  their  blazing  fire, 
This  tale  the  shepherd  told : — 

' '  I  saw  a  crag,  a  lofty  stone 

As  ever  tempest  beat ! 

Out  of  its  head  an  Oak  had  grown, 

A  Broom  out  of  its  feet. 

The  time  was  March,  a  cheerful  noon — 

The  thaw-wind,  with  the  breath  of  June, 

Breathed  gently  from  the  warm  south-west: 

When,  in  a  voice  sedate  with  age, 

This  Oak,  a  giant  and  a  sage, 

His  neighbour  thus  addressed : 

"  '  Eight  weary  weeks,   through  rock  and 
Along  this  mountain's  edge,  [clay, 

The  frost  hath  wrought  both  night  and  day, 
Wedge  driving  after  wedge. 
Look  up !  and  think  above  your  head 
What  trouble,  surely,  will  be  bred  ; 
Last  night  I  heard  a  crash — 'tis  true, 
The  splinters  took  another  road — 
I  see  them  yonder — what  a  load 
For  such  a  thing  as  you  ! 

"  '  You  are  preparing  as  before, 

To  deck  your  slender  shape  ; 

(\nd  yet,  just  three  years  back — no  more — 

You.  had  a  strange  escape. 

Down  from  yon  cliff  a  fragment  broke ; 

In  thunder  down,  with  fire  and  smoke, 


And  hitherward  pursued  its  way  : 
This  ponderous  block  was  caught  by  me, 
And  o'er  your  head,  as  you  may  see, 
'Tis  hanging  to  this  day ! 

' '  '  The  thing  had  better  been  asleep 

Whatever  thing  it  were, 

Or  breeze,  or  bird,  or  dog,  or  sheep, 

That  first  did  plant  you  there. 

For  you  and  your  green  twigs  decoy 

The  little  witless  shepherd-boy 

To  come  and  slumber  in  your  bower; 

And,  trust  me,  on  some  sultry  noon, 

Both  you  and  he,  Heaven  knows  how  soon: 

Will  perish  in  one  hour. 

"  '  From  me  this  friendly  warning  take'— 
The  Broom  began  to  doze, 
And  thus  to  keep  herself  awake 
Did  gently  interpose : 
'  My  thanks  for  your  discourse  are  due  ; 
That  more  than  what  you  say  is  true 
I  know,  and  I  have  known  it  long  ; 
Frail  is  the  bond  by  which  we  hold 
Our  being  whether  young  or  old, 
Wise,  foolish,  weak,  or  strong. 

"  '  Disasters,  do  the  best  we  can, 

Will  teach  both  great  and  small ; 

And  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man 

Who  is  not  wise  at  all. 

For  me,  why  should  I  wish  to  roam  ! 

This  spot  is  my  paternal  home, 

It  is  my  pleasant  heritage ; 

My  father  many  a  happy  year 

Here  spent  his  careless  blossoms,  here 

Attained  a  good  old  age. 

"  '  Even  such  as  his  may  be  my  lot. 

What  cause  have  I  to  haunt 

My  heart  with  terrors  ?    Am  I  not 

In  truth  a  favoured  plant ! 

On  me  such  bounty  summer  pours, 

That  I  am  covered  o'er  with  flowers  ; 

And,  when  the  frost  is  in  the  sky, 

My  branches  are  so  fresh  and  gay 

That  you  might  look  at  me  and  say, 

This  plant  can  never  die. 

"  '  The  butterfly,  all  green  and  gold, 

To  me  hath  often  flown, 

Here  in  my  blossoms  to  behold 

Wings  lovely  as  his  own. 

When  grass  is  chill  with  rain  or  dew, 

Beneath  my  shade,  the  mother  ewe 

Lies  with  her  infant  lamb  ;  I  see 

The  love  they  to  each  other  make, 

And  the  sweet  joy,  which  they  partake, 

It  is  a  joy  to  me.' 


POEMS  OF  TIIF  FANCY. 


77 


N  Her  voice  was  blithe,  her  heart  was  light ; 
The  Broom  might  have  pursued 
Her  speech,  until  the  stars  of  night 
Their  journey  had  renewed : 
But  in  the  branches  of  the  Oak 
Two  ravens  now  began  to  croak 
Their  nuptial  song,  a  gladsome  air ; 
And  to  her  own  green  bower  the  breeze 
That  instant  brought  two  stripling  bees 
To  rest,  or  murmur  there. 

"One  night,  my  children  !  from  the  north 

There  came  a  furious  blast  ; 

At  break  of  day  I  ventured  forth, 

And  near  the  cliff  I  passed. 

The  storm  had  fallen  upon  the  Oak, 

And  struck  him  with  a  mighty  stroke, 

And  whirled,  and  whirled  him  far  away ; 

And,  in  one  hospitable  cleft, 

The  little  careless  Broom  was  left 

To  live  for  many  a  day." 


SONG  FOR  THE  SPINNING 
WHEEL. 

FOUNDED  UPON  A  BELIEF  PREVALENT 

AMONG  THE  PASTORAL  VALES 

OF  WESTMORELAND. 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 
Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour, 
When  the  weary  fingers  feel 
Help,  as  if  from  faery  power ; 
Dewy  night  o'ershades  the  ground  ; 
Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round ! 

Now,  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
Crouch  the  widely-scattered  sheep  ;— 
Ply  the  pleasant  labour,  ply  ! 
For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep, 
Runs  with  motion  smooth  and  fine, 
Gathering  up  a  trustier  line. 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 
By  a  glance  from  fickle  eyes  ; 
But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 
Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies, 
When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest 
Sleeping  on  the  mountain's  breast. 


The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
When  autumn  winds  are  sobbing  ? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  boors  ? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 
The  bird,  who  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  their  brother, 
The  darling  of  children  and  men  ? 
Could  father  Adam  open  his  eyes,* 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies, 
He'd  wish  to  close  them  again. 

If  the  butterfly  knew  but  his  friend, 
Hither  his  flight  he  would  bend; 
And  find  his  way  to  me 
Under  the  branches  of  the  tree  : 
In  and  out,  he  darts  about; 
Can  this  be  the  bird,  to  man  so  good, 
That,  after  their  bewildering, 
Did  cover  with  leaves  the  little  children, 
So  painfully  in  the  wood  ? 

What  ailed  thee,  Robin,  that  thou  couldst 
pursue 
A  beautiful  creature, 
That  is  gentle  by  nature  ? 
Beneath  the  summer  sky 
From  flower  to  flower  let  him  fly ; 
'Tis  all  that  he  wishes  to  do. 
The  cheerer  thou  of  our  indoor  sadness, 
He  is  the  friend  of  our  summer  gladness: 
What  hinders,  then,  that  ye  should  be 
Playmates  in  the  sunny  weather, 
And  fly  about  in  the  air  together  ! 
His  beautiful  wings  in  crimson  are  drest, 
A  crimson  as  bright  as  thine  own  : 
If  thou  wouldst  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 
O  pious  bird  !  whom  man  loves  best, 
Love  him,  or  leave  him  alone  ! 


THE  REDBREAST  AND 
BUTTERFLY. 

ART  thou  the  bird  whom  man  loves  best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 
Our  little  English  robin  ; 


THE  KITTEN  AND  THE  FALLING 
LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  infant,  lo  I 
What  a  pretty  baby  show  ! 
See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 
Withered  leaves — one — two — and  three — 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 

*  See  "  Paradise  Lost,"  book  xi.,  where  Adam 
points  out  to  Eve  the  ominous  sign  of  the  eagle 
chasing  "  two  birds  of  gayest  plume,"  and  the 
gentle  hart  and  hind  pursued  by  their  enemy . 


78 


POElfS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly:  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made, 
Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  faery  hither  tending, — 
To  this  lower  world  descending, 
Each  invisible  and  mute, 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 

■ But  the  kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts! 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ; 
There  are  many  now — now  one — 
Now  they  stop;  and  there  are  none- 
VYhat  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 
With  a  tiger-leap  half  way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 
Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again  : 
Now  she  works  with  three  or  four 
Like  an  Indian  conjuror  ; 
Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 
Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 
Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 
Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 
Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 
Over  happy  to  be  proud, 
Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure! 


Tis  a  pretty  baby-treat, 
Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet; 
Here,  for  neither  babe  nor  me, 
Other  playmate  can  I  see. 
Of  the  countless  living  things, 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings, 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade 
Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 
And  with  busy  revellings, 
Chirp  and  song,  and  murmurings, 
Alade  this  orchard's  narrow  space, 
And  this  vale  so  blithe  a  place; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away 
Never  more  to  breathe  the  day: 
Some  are  sleeping;  some  in  bands 
Travelled  into  distant  lands; 
Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 
Far  from  human  neighbourhood  ; 
And,  among  the  kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship, 
With  us  openly  abide, 
All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 
Where  is  he  that  giddy  sprite, 
Blue-cap,  with  his  colours  bright, 


Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be, 

Feeding  in  the  apple-tree; 

Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 

Turning  blossoms  inside  out; 

Hung  with  head  towards  the  ground, 

Fluttered,  perched,  into  a  round 

Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound  ? 

Lithest,  gaudiest  harlequin  ! 

Prettiest  tumbler  ever  seen  ! 

Light  of  heart,  and  light  of  lim 

What  is  now  become  of  him  ! 

Lambs  that  through  the  mountains  went 

Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 

When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 

They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 

If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill, 

If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 

Save  a  little  neighbouring  rill, 

That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 

Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 

Vainly  glitters  hill  and  plain, 

And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain  ; 

Vainly  morning  spreads  the  lure 

Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure  ; 

Creature  none  can  she  decoy 

Into  open  sign  of  joy  : 

Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 

Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 

Or  that  other  pleasures  be 

Sweeter  even  than  gaiety  ? 


Yet,  whate'er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  nature 
Furnishes  to  every  creature  ; 
Whatsoe'er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show, 
Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  kitten  !  from  thy  freaks,— 
Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 
O'er  my  little  Laura's  face  ; 
Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 
That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair  ! 
And  I  will  have  my  careless  season 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason  ; 
Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 
Now  and  then  I  may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 
— Pleased  by  any  random  toy  ; 
By  a  kitten's  busy  joy, 
Or  an  infant's  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy  ; 


rOEMF  OF  THE  FANCY. 


70 


1  would  fare  like  that  or  this, 
Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 
Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake. 
And  have  faculties  to  take, 
Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 
Matter  for  a  jocund  thought, 
Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 
I'o  gambol  with  life's  falling  leaf. 


A  FLOWER  GARDEN. 

Tell  me,  ye  zephyrs  !  that  unfold, 

While  fluttering  o'er  this  gay  recess, 

Pinions  that  fanned  the  teeming  mould 

Of  Eden's  blissful  wilderness, 

Did  only  softly-stealing  hours, 

There  close  the  peaceful  lives  of  flowers  ? 

Say,  when  the  moving  creatures  saw 
All  kinds  commingled  without  fear, 
Prevailed  alike  indulgent  law 
For  the  still  growths  that  prosper  here  ? 
Did  wanton  fawn  and  kid  forbear 
The  half-blown  rose,  the  lily  spare  ? 

Or  peeped  they  often  from  their  beds 
And  prematurely  disappeared, 
Devoured  like  pleasure  ere  it  spreads 
A  bosom  to  the  sun  endeared  ? 
If  such  their  harsh  untimely  doom, 
It  falls  not  here  on  bud  or  bloom. 

All  summer  long  the  happy  Eve 
Of  this  fair  spot  her  flowers  may  bind, 
Nor  e'er,  with  ruffled  fancy,  grieve, 
From  the  next  glance  she  casts,  to  find 
That  love  for  little  things  by  fate 
Is  rendered  vain  as  love  for  great. 

Vet,  where  the  guardian  fence  is  wound, 
So  subtly  is  the  eye  beguiled 
It  sees  not  nor  suspects  a  bound, 
No  more  than  in  some  forest  wild  ; 
Free  as  the  light  in  semblance— crost 
Only  by  art  in  nature  lost. 

And,  though  the  jealous  turf  refuse 
By  random  footsteps  to  be  prest, 
And  feeds  on  never-sullied  dews, 
Ye,  gentle  breezes  from  the  west, 
With  all  the  ministers  of  hope, 
rVre  tempted  to  this  sunny  slope  ! 

And  hither  throngs  of  birds  resort : 
Some,  inmates  lodged  in  shady  nests, 
Some,  perched  on  stems  of  stately  port 


That  nod  to  welcome  transient  guests  ; 
While  hare  and  leveret,  seen  at  play, 
Appear  not  more  shut  out  than  they. 

Apt  emblem  (for  reproof  of  pride) 
This  delicate  enclosure  shows 
Of  modest  kindness,  that  would  hide 
The  firm  protection  she  bestows  ; 
Of  manners,  like  its  viewless  fence, 
Ensuring  peace  to  innocence. 

Thus  spake  the  moral  muse— her  wing 
Abruptly  spreading  to  depart, 
She  left  that  farewell  offering, 
Memento  for  some  docile  heart  ; 
That  may  respect  the  good  old  age 
When  fancy  was  truth's  willing  page  ; 
And  truth  would  skim  the  flowery  glade, 
Though  entering  but  as  fancy's  shade. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  common-place 
Of  nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 

Which  love  makes  for  thee  I 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit,  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  ! 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations  ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  ck-fy, 
That  thought  comes  next— and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold, 
That  spreads  itself,  some  faery  bold 

In  fight  to  cover  1 


POEMS  OF  TEE  FANCY 


I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  ; — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star  ; 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest  ;- 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 

Sweet  flower  !  for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  creature ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 


TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 

Bright  flower,  whose  home  is  everywhere 

A  pilgrim  bold  in  nature's  care, 

And  all  the  long  year  through  the  heir 

Of  joy  or  sorrow, 
Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity, 
Given  to  no  other  flower  I  see 

The  forest  thorough  ! 

Is  it  that  man  is  soon  deprest  ? 

A  thoughtless  thing  !  who,  once  unblest, 

Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

Or  on  his  reason  ; 
But  thou  wouldst  teach  him  how  to  find 
A  shelter  under  every  wind, 
A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 

And  every  season. 

Thou  wander'st  the  wide  world  about, 
Unchecked  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without, 

Yet  pleased  and  willing  ; 
Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion's  call, 
And  all  things  suffering  from  all, 
Thy  function  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling. 


TO  A  SKY-LARK. 

Up  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 

For  thy  song,  lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind 


I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary  ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  faery 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Up  with  me,  up  with  me,  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky  ! 

Joyous  as  morning, 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning  ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  lark  !  thou  wouldst  be  loth 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  almighty  Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must 

wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind, 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 
And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's 

day  is  done. 


TO  A  SEXTON. 

Let  thy  wheelbarrow  alone — 
Wherefore,  sexton,  piling  still 
In  thy  bone-house  bone  on  bone? 
'Tis  already  like  a  hill 
In  a  field  of  battle  made, 
Where  three  thousand  skulls  are  laid  ; 
These  died  in  peace  each  with  the  other, 
Father,  sister,  friend,  and  brother. 

Mark  the  spot  to  which  I  point ! 
From  this  platform,  eight  feet  square, 
Take  not  even  a  finger  joint : 
Andrew's  whole  fire-side  is  there. 
Here,  alone,  before  thine  eyes, 
Simon's  sickly  daughter  lies, 
From  weakness  now,  and  pain  defended 
Whom  he  twenty  winters  tended. 

Look  but  at  the  gardener's  pride — 

How  he  glories,  when  he  sees 

Roses,  lilies,  side  by  side, 

Violets  in  families  ! 

By  the  heart  of  man,  his  tears, 

By  his  hopes  and  by  his  fears, 

Thou,  old  grey-beard  !  art  the  warden 

Of  a  far  superior  garden. 


POKMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


81 


Thus  then,  each  to  other  dear, 

Let  them  all  in  quiet  lie, 

Andrew  there,  and  Susan  here, 

Neighbours  in  mortality. 

And,  should  I  live  through  sun  and  ram 

Seven  widowed  years  without  my  Jane, 

O  sexton,  do  not  then  remove  her, 

Let  one  grave  hold  the  loved  and  lover  ! 


THE  CORONET  OF  SNOWDROPS. 

Who  fancied  what  a  pretty  sight 
This  rock  would  be  if  edged  around 
With  living  snowdrops  ?  circlet  bright ! 
How  glorious  to  this  orchard-ground  ! 
Who  loved  the  little  rock,  and  set 
Upon  its  head  this  coronet? 

Was  it  the  humour  of  a  child  ? 
Or  rather  of  some  love-sick  maid, 
Whose  brows,  the  day  that  she  was  styled 
The  shepherd  queen,  were  thus  arrayed  ? 
Of  man  mature,  or  matron  sage  ? 
Or  old-man  toying  with  his  age  ? 

I  asked— 'twas  whispered— The  device 
To  each  and  all  might  well  belong  : 
It  is  the  spirit  of  Paradise 
That  prompts  such  work,  a  spirit  strong, 
That  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent 
Where  life  is  wise  and  innocent. 


SONG 

FOR  THE  WANDERING  JEW. 
Though  the  torrents  from  their  fountains 
Roar  down  many  a  craggy  steep, 
Yet  they  find  among  the  mountains 
Resting-places  calm  and  deep. 

Clouds  that  love  through  air  to  hasten, 
Ere  the  storm  its  fury  stills, 
Helmet-like  themselves  will  fasten 
On  the  heads  of  towering  hills. 

What,  if  through  the  frozen  centre 
Of  the  Alps  the  chamois  bound, 
Yet  he  has  a  home  to  enter 
In  some  nook  of  chosen  ground. 

If  on  windy  days  the  raven 
Gambol  like  a  dancing  skiff, 
Not  the  less  she  loves  her  haven 
In  the  bosom  of  the  cliff. 


Though  the  sea-horse  in  the  ocean 
Own  no  dear  domestic  cave, 
Yet  he  slumbers— by  the  motion 
Rocked  of  many  a  gentle  wave. 

The  fleet  ostrich,  till  day  closes 
Vagrant  over  desert  sands, 
Brooding  on  her  eggs  reposes 
When  chill  night  that  care  demands. 

Pay  and  night  my  toils  redouble, 
Never  nearer  to  the  goal ; 
Night  and  day,  I  feel  the  trouble 
Of  the  wanderer  in  my  soul. 


THE  SEVEN  SISTERS ; 

OR,  THE  SOLITUDE  OF  BINNORIE. 

Seven  daughters  had  Lord  Archibald, 

All  children  of  one  mother  : 

I  could  not  say  in  one  short  da) 

W  iat  love  they  bore  each  other. 

A  garland  of  seven  lilies  wrought  ! 

Seven  sisters  that  together  dwell ; 

But  he,  bold  knight  as  ever  fought, 

Their  father,  took  of  them  no  though'. 

He  loved  the  wars  so  well. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie  ! 

Fresh  blows  the  wind,  a  western  wind 

And  from  the  shores  of  Erin, 

Across  the  wave,  a  rover  brave 

To  Binnorie  is  steering  : 

Right  onward  to  the  Scottish  strand 

The  gallant  ship  is  borne  ; 

The  warriors  leap  upon  the  land, 

And  hark  !  the  leader  of  the  band 

Hath  blown  his  bugle  horn. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Beside  a  grotto  of  their  own, 
With  boughs  above  them  closing, 
The  seven  are  laid,  and  in  the  shade 
They  lie  like  fawns  reposing. 
But  now,  upstarting  with  affright 
At  noise  of  man  and  steed, 
Away  they  fly  to  left,  to  right — 
Of  your  fair  household,  father  knight 
Methinks  you  take  small  heed  ! 
Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 
The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Away  the  seven  fair  Campbells  fly, 
And,  over  hill  and  hollow, 
With  menace  proud,  and  insult  lou'l, 
The  youthful  rovers  follow- 


82 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Cried  they,  "  Your  father  loves  to  roam  : 

Enough  for  him  to  find 

The  empty  house  when  he  comes  home  ; 

For  us  your  yellow  ringlets  comb, 

For  us  be  fair  and  kind  !" 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Some  close  behind,  some  side  by  side, 

Like  clouds  in  stormy  weather, 

They  run,  and  cry,  "  Nay  let  us  die, 

And  let  us  die  together." 

A  lake  was  near  ;  the  shore  was  steep  ; 

There  never  foot  had  been  ; 

They  ran,  and  with  a  desperate  leap 

Together  plunged  into  the  deep, 

Nor  ever  more  were  seen. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

The  stream  that  flows  out  of  the  lake, 
As  through  the  glen  it  rambles, 
Repeats  a  moan  o'er  moss  and  stone, 
For  those  seven  lovely  Campbells. 
Seven  little  islands,  green  and  bare, 
Have  risen  from  out  the  deep  : 
The  fishers  say,  those  sisters  fair 
By  fairies  are  all  buried  there, 
And  there  together  sleep. 
Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 
The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Between  two  sister  moorland  rills 

There  is  a  spot  that  seems  to  lie 

Sacred  to  flowerets  of  the  hills, 

And  sacred  to  the  sky. 

And  in  this  smooth  and  open  dell 

There  is  a  tempest-stricken  tree  ; 

A  corner-stone  by  lightning  cut, 

The  last  stone  of  a  cottage  hut ; 

And  in  this  dell  you  see 

A  thing  no  storm  can  e'er  destroy, 

The  shadow  of  a  Danish  boy.* 

In  clouds  above,  the  lark  is  heard, 
But  drops  not  here  to  earth  for  rest 


*  These  stanzas  were  designed  to  introduce  a 
ballad  upon  the  story  of  a  Danish  prince  who 
had  fled  from  battle,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
valuables  about  him,  was  murdered  by  the 
inhabitant  of  a  cottage  in  which  he  had  taken 
refuge.  The  house  fell  under  a  curse,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  youth,  it  was  believed,  haunted  the 
valley  where  the  crime  had  been  committed. 


Within  this  nook  the  lonesome  bird 
Did  never  build  her  nest. 
No  beast,  no  t)rd  hath  here  his  home  ; 
Bees,  waffited  0*1  the  breezy  air, 
Pass  high  above  those  fragrant  bells 
To  other  flowers  ;  to  other  dells 
Their  burthens  do  they  bear  ; 
The  Danish  boy  walks  here  alone  : 
The  lovely  dell  is  all  his  own . 

A  spirit  of  noon-day  is  he  ; 

He  seems  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood  ; 

Nor  piping  shepherd  shall  he  be, 

Nor  herd-boy  of  the  wood. 

A  regal  vest  of  fur  he  wears, 

In  colour  like  a  raven's  wing  ; 

It  fears  not  rain,  nor  wind,  nor  dew  ; 

But  in  the  storm  'tis  fresh  and  blue 

As  budding  pines  in  spring  ; 

His  helmet  was  a  vernal  grace, 

Fresh  as  the  bloom  upon  his  face 

A  harp  is  from  his  shoulder  slung  ; 
He  rests  the  harp  upon  his  knee  ; 
And  there,  in  a  forgotten  tongue, 
He  warbles  melody. 
Of  flocks  upon  the  neighbouring  hill 
He  is  the  darling  and  the  joy  ; 
And  often,  when  no  cause  appears, 
The  mountain  ponies  prick  their  ears, 
They  hear  the  Danish  boy, 
While  in  the  dell  he  sits  alone 
Beside  the  tree  and  corner-stone. 

There  sits  he :  in  his  face  you  spy 

No  trace  of  a  ferocious  air, 

Nor  ever  was  a  cloudless  sky 

So  steady  or  so  fair. 

The  lovely  Danish  boy  is  blest 

And  happy  in  his  flowery  cove  : 

From  bloody  deeds  his  thoughts  are  far . 

And  yet  he  warbles  songs  of  war, 

That  seem  like  songs  of  love, 

For  calm  and  gentle  is  his  mien  ; 

Like  a  dead  boy  he  is  serene. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  DREAM  ; 

OR,  THE  STAR   AND   THE   GLOW-WORM. 

A  pilgrim,  when  the  summer  day 

Had  closed  upon  his  weary  way, 

A  lodging  begged  beneath  a  castle's  roof; 

But  him  the  haughty  warder  spurned  ; 

And  from  the  j;ate  the  pilgrim  turned, 

To  seek  such  covert  as  the  field 

Or  heath-bespiinkled  copse  might  yield. 

Or  lofty  wood,  shower-proof- 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


83 


He  paced  along  ;  and,  pensively, 

Halting  beneath  a  shady  tree, 

Whose  moss-grown  root   might  serve  for 

couch  or  seat, 
Fixed  on  a  star  his  upward  eye  ; 
Then,  from  the  tenant  of  the  sky 
He  turned,  and  watched  with  kindred  look, 
A  glow-worm,  in  a  dusky  nook, 
Apparent  at  his  feet. 

The  murmur  of  a  neighbouring  stream 

Induced  a  soft  and  slumbrous  dream, 

A  pregnant  dream,  within  whose  shadowy 

bounds 
He  recognised  the  earth-born  star, 
And  that  which  glittered  from  afar  ; 
And  (strange  to  witness  !)  from  the  frame 
Of  the  ethereal  orb,  there  came 
Intelligible  sounds. 

Much  did  it  taunt  the  humbler  light 
That  now,  when  day  was  fled,  and  night 
Hushed  the  dark  earth— fast  closing  weary 

eyes, 
A  very  reptile  could  presume 
To  show  her  taper  in  the  gloom, 
As  if  in  rivalship  with  one 
Who  sate  a  ruler  on  his  throne 
Erected  in  the  skies. 

"  Exalted  star  !"  the  worm  replied, 
"Abate  this  unbecoming  pride, 
Or  with  a  less  uneasy  lustre  shine  ; 
Thou  shrink'st  as  momently  thy  rays 
Are  mastered  by  the  breathing  haze  ; 
While  neither  mist,  nor  thickest  cloud 
That  shapes  in  heaven  its  murky  shroud, 
Hath  power  to  injure  mine. 

"  But  not  for  this  do  I  aspire 
To  match  the  spark  of  local  fire, 
That  at  my  will  burns  on  the  dewy  lawn, 
With  thy  acknowledged  glories  ; — No  ! 
Yet,  thus  upbraided,  I  may  show 
What  favours  do  attend  me  here, 
Till,  like  thyself,  I  disappear 
Before  the  purple  dawn." 

When  this  in  modest  guise  was  said, 
Across  the  welkin  seemed  to  spread 
A  boding  sound — for  aught  but  sleep  unfit  ! 
Hills  quaked — the  ravers  backward  ran — 
That  star,  so  proud  of  late,  looked  wan  ; 
And  reeled  with  visionary  stir 
In  the  blue  depth,  like  Lucifer 
Cast  headlong  to  the  pit  ! 


Fire  raged, — and  when  the  spangled  floor 

Of  ancient  ether  was  no  more, 

New   heavens    succeeded,    by   the   dream 

brought  forth  : 
And  all  the  happy  souls  that  rode 
Transfigured  through  that  fresh  abode, 
Had  heretofore,  in  humble  trust, 
Shone  meekly  'mid  their  native  dust, 
The  glow-worms  of  the  earth  ! 

This  knowledge,  from  an  angel's  voice 
[  Proceeding,  made  the  heart  rejoice 
Of  him  who  slept  upon  the  open  lea  : 
Waking  at  morn  he  murmured  not; 
And,  till  life's  journey  closed,  the  spot 
Was  to  the  pilgrim's  soul  endeared, 
Where  by  that  dream  he  had  been  cheered 
Beneath  the  shady  tree. 


HINT  FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS 

FOR    CERTAIN    POLITICAL    PRETENDERS. 

"Who  but  hails  the  sight  with  pleasure 
When  the  wings  of  genius  rise, 
Their  ability  to  measure 

With  great  enterprise ; 
But  in  man  was  ne'er  such  daring 
As  yon  hawk  exhibits,  pairing 
His  brave  spirit  with  the  war  in 

The  stormy  skies ! 

"Mark  him,  how  his  power  he  uses. 
Lays  it  by,  at  will  resumes ! 
Mark,  ere  for  his  haunt  he  chooses 

Clouds  and  utter  glooms ! 
There  he  wheels  in  downward  mazes; 
Sunward  now  his  flight  he  raises, 
Catches  fire,  as  seems,  and  blazes 

With  uninjured  plumes!" 

ANSWER. 

"Stranger,  'tis  no  act  of  courage 
Which  aloft  thou  dost  discern; 
No  bold  bird  gone  forth  to  forage 

'Mid  the  tempest  stern; 
But  such  mockery  as  the  nations 
See,  when  public  perturbations 
Lift  men  from  their  native  stations, 

Like  yon  tuft  of  fern; 

"Such  it  is; — the  aspiring  creature 
Soaring  on  undaunted  wing 
(So  you  fancied)  is  by  nature 
A  dull  helpless  thing, 


84 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Dry  and  withered,  light  and  yellow; — 
That  to  be  the  tempest's  fellow ! 
Wait  and  you  shall  see  how  hollow 
Its  endeavouring!" 


STRAY    PLEASURES. 

"  Pleasure  is  spread  through  tlie  earth 
In  stray  gifts,  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall 
find." 

By  their  floating  mill. 
That  lies  dead  and  still, 
Behold  yon  prisoners  three, 
The  miller  with  two  dames,  on  the  breast 
of  the  Thames!  [them  all; 

The  platform  is  small,  but  gives  room  for 
And  they're  dancing  merrily. 

From  the  shore  come  the  notes 
To  their  mill  where  it  floats, 
To  their  house  and  their  mill  tethered  fast;  ' 
To  the  small  wooden  isle  where,  their  work  ,' 
to  beguile,  ("given;—  ' 

They  from  morning  to  even  take  whatever  is 
And  many  a  blithe  day  they  have  past. 

In  sight  of  the  spires, 
All  alive  with  the  fires 
Of  the  sun  going  down  to  his  rest, 
In  the  broad  open  eye  of  the  solitary  sky, 
They  dance,— there  are  three,  as  jocund  as 

free, 
While  they  dance  on  the  calm  river's  breast. 

Men  and  maidens  wheel, 
They  themselves  make  the  reel, 
And  their  music's  a  prey  which  they  seize; 
It  plays  not  for  them,— what  matter?  'tis 
theirs;  [cares, 

And  if  they  had  care,  it  has  scattered  their 
While  they  dance,   crying,    "Long  as  ye 
please!" 

They  dance  not  for  me,  j 

Yet  mine  is  their  glee ! 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts,  to  be  claimed  by  whoever 
shall  find;  [kind| 

I  hus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly 
Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth.       j 

The  showers  of  the  spring 
Rouse  the  birds,  and  they  sing; 
If  the  wind  do  but  stir  for  his  proper  delight   ' 
Each  leaf,  that  and  this,  his  neighbour  will 
„    ,kiss;  [his  brother; 

Jbach  wave,  one  and  t'other,  speeds  after 
They  are  happy,  for  that  is  their  right  • 


ON    SEEING    A    NEEDLECASE     IN 
THE   FORM  OF  A  HARP, 

THE  WORK  OF  E.    M.    S. 

Frowns  are  on  every  muse's  face, 
Reproaches  from  their  lips  are  sent, 

That  mirmckry  should  thus  disgrace 
The  noble  instrument. 

A  very  harp  in  all  but  size ! 

Needles  for  strings  in  apt  gradation  ! 
Minerva's  self  would  stigmatize 

The  unclassic  profanation. 

J  Even  her  own  needle  that  subdued 
|      Arachne's  rival  spirit, 

I  Though  wrought  in  Vulcan's  happiest  mood, 
Like  station  could  not  merit. 

And  this,  too,  from  the  laureate's  child, 

A  living  lord  of  melody ! 
How  will  her  sire  be  reconciled 

To  the  refined  indignity? 

I  spake,  when  whispered  a  low  voice, 

"  Bard  !  moderate  your  ire  ; 
Spirits  of  all  degrees  rejoice 

In  presence  of  the  lyre. 

"The  minstrels  of  pygmean  bands, 
Dwarf  genii,  moonlight-loving  fays 

Have  shells  to  fit  their  tiny  hands 
And  suit  their  slender  lays. 

"Some,  still  more  delicate  of  ear, 

Have  lutes  (believe  my  words) 
Whose  framework  is  of  gossamer, 

While  sunbeams  are  the  chords. 


I  "Gay  sylphs  this  miniature  will  court, 
I      Made  vocal  by  their  brushing  wings, 
|  And  sullen  gnomes  will  learn  to  sport 
Around  its  polished  strings; 

"Whence  strains  to  love-sick  maiden  dear, 
While  in  her  lonely  bower  she  tries 

To  cheat  the  thought  she  cannot  cheer, 
By  fanciful  embroideries. 

"Trust,  angry  bard  !  a  knowing  sprite, 
Nor  think  the  harp  her  lot  deplores- ' 

Though  'mid  the  stars  the  lyre  shines  bright, 
Love  stoo-is  as  fondly  as  he  soars." 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


85 


ADDRESS    TO    MY     INFANT 
DAUGHTER, 

ON  BEING  REMINDED,  THAT  SHE  WAS  A 
MONTH  OLD  ON  THAT  DAY. 

Hast  thou  then  survived, 
Mild  offspring  of  infirm  humanity, 
Meek  infant !  among  all  forlornest  things 
The  most  forlorn,  one  life  of  that  bright  star, 
The  second  glory  of  the  heavens? — Thou 

hast: 
Already  hast  survived  that  great  decay; 
That  transformation  through  the  wide  earth 

felt, 
And  by  all  nations.     In  that  Being's  sight 
From  whom  the  race  of  human  kind  proceed, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday; 
And  one  day's  narrow  circuit  is  to  Him 
Not  less  capacious  than  a  thousand  years. 
But  what  is  time?     What  outward  glory ? 

Neither 
A  measure  is  of  Thee,  whose  claims  extend 
Through    "heaven's  eternal  year." — Yet 

hail  to  thee,  [methinks, 

Frail,  feeble  monthling ! — by  that  name, 
Thy  scanty  breathing-time  is  portioned  out 
Not  idly. — Hadst  thou  been  of  Indian  birth, 
Couched  on  a  casual  bed  of  moss  and  leaves, 
And  rudely  canopied  by  leafy  boughs, 
Or  to  the  churlish  elements  exposed 
On  the  blank  plains, — the  coldness  of  the 

night, 
Or  the  night's  darkness,  or  its  cheerful  face 
Of  beauty,  by  the  changing  moon  adorned, 
Would,  with  imperious  admonition,  then 
Have   scored  thine  age,    and    punctually 

timed 
Thine  infant  history,  on  the  minds  of  those 
Who  might  have  wandered  with  thee. — 

Mother's  love, 
Nor  less  than  mother's  love  in  other  breasts, 
Will,   among  us  warm  clad   and  warmly 

housed, 
Do  for  thee  what  the  finger  of  the  heavens 
Doth  all  too  often  harshly  execute 
For  thy  unblest  coevals,  amid  wilds 
Where  fancy  hath  small  liberty  to  grace 
The  affections,  to  exalt  them  or.refine  ; 
And  the  maternal  sympathy  itself, 


Happier,  far  happier  is  thy  lot  and  ours  I 
Even  now — To  solemnize  thy  helpless  state, 
And  to  enliven  in  the  mind's  regard 
Thy  passive  beauty — parallels  have  risen, 
Resemblances,  or  contrasts,  that  connect, 
Within  the  region  of  a  father's  thoughts, 
Thee  and  thy  mate  and  sister  of  the  sky. 
And  first; — thy  sinless  progress,  through  a 

world 
By  sorrow  darkened  and  by  care  disturbed, 
Apt  likeness  bears  to  hers,  through  gathered 

clouds, 
Moving  untouched  in  silver  purity, 
And    cheering    oft-times    their    reluctant 

gloom.  [stain: 

Fair  are  ye  both,  and  both  are  free  from 
But  thou,  how  leisurely  thou  fill'st  thy  hon\ 
With  brightness  !  —  leaving  her  to  post 

along, 
And  range  about — disquieted  in  change, 
And  still  impatient  of  the  shape  she  wears. 
Once  up,  once  down  the  hill,  one  journey, 

babe, 
That  will  suffice  thee;  and  it  seems  that  now 
Thou  hast  fore-knowledge  that  such  task 

is  thine; 
Thou  travell'st  so  contentedly,  and  sleep 'st 
In  such  a  heedless  peace.     Alas!  full  soon 
Hath  this  conception,  grateful  to  behold, 
Changed  countenance,  like  an  object  sullied 

o'er 
By  breathing  mist !  and  thine  appears  to  be 
A  mournful  labour,  while  to  her  is  given 
Hope — and  a  renovation  without  end. 
That  smile  forbids   the  thought; — for  on 

thy  face  [dawn, 

Smiles  are  beginning,  like  the  beams  of 
To  shoot  and  circulate; — smiles  have  there 

been  seen, — 
Tranquil  assurances  that  Heaven  supports 
The  feeble  motions  of  thy  life,  and  cheers 
Thy  loneliness; — or  shall  those  smiles  be 

called 
Feelers  of  love, — put  forth  as  if  to  explore 
This  untried  world,  and  to  prepare  thy  way 
Through  a  strait  passage  intricate  and  dim  ? 
Such  are  they,— and  the  same  are  tokens, 
signs,  [arrived, 

Which,  when  the  appointed  season  hath 
Joy,  as  her  holiest  language,  shall  adopt; 


Though  strong,  is,  in  the  main,  a  joyless  tie    And  reason's  godlike  power  be  proud  to 
Of  naked  instinct,  wound  about  the  heart.  <         own. 


forms  of  tjjc  Imagination. 


There  was  a  boy;  ye  knew  him  well  ve 

cliffs  3 

And  islands  of  Winander!  many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake; 
And  there,  with  fingers   interwoven,  both 
hands  [mouth 

Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him.— And  they 

would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to   his    call,— with    quivering 
peals,  [loud 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes 
Redoubled  and  redoubled;  concourse  wild 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din!    And,   when  it 

chanced 
That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked  his  skill, 
Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he 

hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its    woods,    and   that  uncertain  heaven, 

received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and 
T       died  [old. 

In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years 
Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale 
Where  he  was  born:  the  grassy  church-yard 

hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school; 
And  through   that  church-yard  when  my 

way  has  led 
At  evening,  I  believe,  that  oftentimes 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute— looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he 
lies  1 


TO  , 

ON  HER  FIRST  ASCENT    TO  THE  SUMMIT 
OF  HELVELLYN. 

Inmate  ot  a  mountain-dwelling, 
Thou  hast  clomb  aloft,  and  gazed, 


From  the  watch-towers  of  Helvellyn ; 
Awed,  delighted,  and  amazed) 

Potent  was  the  spell  that  bound  thee, 
Not  unwilling  to  obey  ; 
For  blue  ether's  arms,  flung  round  thee 
Stilled  the  pantings  of  dismay. 

Lo!  the  dwindled  woods  and  meadows  ! 
What  a  vast  abyss  is  there  I 
Lo!  the  clouds,  the  solemn  shadows, 
And  the  glistenings— heavenly  fair  ! 

And  a  record  of  commotion 
Which  a  thousant  ridges  yield; 
Ridge,  and  gulf,  and  distant  ocean 
Gleaming  like  a  silver  shield! 

Take  thy  flight;— possess,  inherit 
Alps  or  Andes— they  are  thine  ! 
With  the  morning's  roseate  spirit, 
Sweep  their  length  of  snowy  line ; 

Or  survey  the  bright  dominions 
In  the  gorgeous  colours  drest, 
Flung  from  off  the  purple  pinions, 
Evening  spreads  throughout  the  west ! 

Thine  are  all  the  choral  fountains 
Warbling  in  each  sparry  vault 
Of  the  untrodden  lunar  mountains  ; 
Listen  to  their  songs ! — or  halt, 

To  Niphate's  top  invited, 
Whither  spiteful  Satan  steered  ; 
Or  descend  where  the  ark  alighted, 
When  the  green  earth  re-appeared'; 

For  the  power  of  hills  is  on  thee, 
As  was  witnessed  through  thine  eye 
Then,  when  old  Helvellyn  won  thee 
To  confess  their  majestv  ! 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard. 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  gras 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear| 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


87 


Though  babbling  only,  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  ilowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  talc 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird:  but  an  invisible  thing; 

A  voice,  a  mystery. 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 
I  listened  to  ;  that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial  faery  place  ; 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee  ! 


Built     round     by     those     white     clouds, 

enormous  clouds, 
Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 
At  length  the  vision  closes  ;  and  the  mind. 
Not  undisturbed  by  the  delight  it  feels, 
Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm, 
Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 


A  NIGHT-PIECE. 

The  sky  is  overcast 
With  a  continuous  cloud  of  texture  close, 
Heavy  and  wan,  all  whitened  by  the  moon, 
Which  through  that  veil  is  indistinctly  seen, 
A  dull,  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 
So  feebly  spread,  that  not  a  shadow  falls, 
Chequering  the  ground — from  rock,  plant, 

tree,  or  tower. 
At  length  a  pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 
Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while  he  treads 
His  lonesome  path,  with  unobserving  eye 
Bent  earthwards  :  he  looks  up— the  clouds 

are  split  ( 

Asunder, — and  above  his  head  he  sees 
The    clear  moon,    and   the   glory   of  the 

heavens. 
There,  in  a  black  blue  vault  she  sails  along, 
Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small 
And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark  abyss 
Drive  as  she  drives  ; — how  fast  they  wheel 

away, 
Yet  vanish  not ! — the  wind  is  in  the  tree, 
But  they  are  silent ; — still  they  roll  along 
Immeasurably  distant  ; — and  the  vault, 


WATER-FOWL. 

"  Let  me  be  allowed  the  aid  of  verse  to  describe 
the  evolutions  which  these  visitants  sometimes 
perform,  on  a  fine  day  towards  the  close  of 
winter." — Extract  from  the  Author  s  Book  oil. 
tlie  Lakes. 

Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood, 
With  grace  of  motion  that  might  scarcely 
Inferior  to  angelical,  prolong  [seem 

Their  curious  pastime  !  shaping  in  mid  air 
(And  sometimes  with  ambitious  wing  that 

soars 
High  as  the  level  of  the  mountain  tops) 
A  circuit  ampler  than  the  lake  beneath, 
Their  own  domain  ;— but  ever,  while  intent 
On  tracing  and  retracing  that  large  round, 
Their  jubilant  activity  evolves 
Hundreds  of  curves  and  circles,  to  and  fro, 
Upward  and  downward,  progress  intricate 
Yet  unperplexed,  as  if  one  spirit  swayed 
Their  indefatigable  flight.— Tis  done — 
Ten  times,  or  more,  I  fancied  it  had  ceased; 
But  lo !  the  vanished  company  again 
Ascending  ; — they  approach — I  hear  their 
wings  [sound 

Faint,   faint  at  first  ;  and  then  an   eager 
Past  in  a  moment — and  as  faint  again ! 
They  tempt  the  sun  to  sport  amid   their 

plumes  ; 
They  tempt  the  water,  or  the  gleaming  ice, 
To  show  them  a  fair  image  ; — 'tis   them- 
selves, [plain, 
Their  own  fair  forms,  upon  the  glimmering 
Painted  more  soft  and  fair  as  they  descend 
Almost  to  touch  ; — then  up  again  aloft, 
Up  with  a  sally  and  a  flash  of  speed, 
As  if  they  scorned  both  resting-place  and 
rest !                     i 

YEWr-TREES. 

There  is  a  yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale, 
Which  to  thisjiay  stands  single,  in  the  midst 
Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore, 
Not  loth  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  bands 
Of  Umfraville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched 
To  Scotland's  heaths ;  or  those  that  crossed 
the  sea 


88 


POEMS  OF'  THE  IMAGINATION. 


And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azincour, 

Perhaps  at  earlier  Cjrecy,  or  Poictiers. 

Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 

This  solitary  tree  !— a  living  thing 

Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay  ; 

Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 

To  be   destroyed.     But    worthier  still  of 

note 
Are  those  fraternal  four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove; 
Huge  trunks  ! — and  each  particular  trunk 

a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved, — 
Nor  uninformed  with  phantasy,  and  looks 
That    threaten    the    profane ;— a  pillared 

shade,  [hue, 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown 
By  sheddings   from   the   pining  umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath  whose  sable  roof 
Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose  decked 
With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide— Fear  and  trembling 

Hope, 
Silence  and  Foresight — Death  the  Skeleton, 
And  Time  the  Shadow, — there  to  celebrate, 
As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 
With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 
United  worship  ;  or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring  from  Glaramara's  inmost  caves. 


Crowding    the    quarter    whence  the  sun 

comes  forth 
Gigantic    mountains   rough    with    crags , 

beneath,  [base, 

Right   at   the    imperial    station's  western 
Main     Ocean,      breaking     audibly     and 

stretched 
Far  into  silent  regions  blue  and  pale  ; — 
And  visibly  engirding  Mona's  Isle, 
That,  as  we  left  the  plain,  before  our  sight 
Stood  like  a  lofty  mount,  uplifting  slowly, 
(Above  the  convex  of  the  watery  globe) 
Into  clear  view  the  cultured  fields  that 

streak 
Her  habitable  shores  ;  but  now  appears 
A  dwindled  object,  and  submits  to  lie 
At  the  spectator's  feet.— Yon  azure  ridge, 
Is  it  a  perishable  cloud  ?    Or  there 
Do  we  behold  the  frame  of  Erin's  coast  ? 
Land  sometimes  by  the  roving  shepherd 

swain 
(Like  the  bright  confines  of  another  world) 
Not  doubtfully  perceived. — Look    home- 
ward now  ! 
In  depth,  in  height,  in  circuit,  how  serene 
The    spectacle,   how   pure  1     Of  nature's 

works, 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  earth-embracing  sen, 
A  revelation  infinite  it  seems  ; 
Display  august  of  man's  inheritance, 
Of  Britain's  calm  felicity  and  power. 


VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  BLACK 
COMB.* 

This  height    a  ministering  angel  might 

select  .  [name 

For  from  the  summit  of  Black  Comb  (dread 
Derived    from    clouds    and  storms !)    the 

amplest  range 
Of  unobstructed  prospect  may  be  seen 
That    British    ground     commands  : — low 

dusky  tracts,  [Cambrian  hills 

Where  Trent  is  nursed,  far  southward  ! 
To  the  south-west,  a  multitudinous  show  ; 
And,  in  a  line  of  eye-sight  linked  with  these, 
The  hoary  peaks  of  Scotland  that  give  birth 
To  Teviot's  stream,  to  Annan,  Tweed,  and 

Clyde  ;— 

*  Black  Comb  stands  at  the  southern  extre- 
mity of  Cumberland  ;  its  base  covers  a  much 
greater  extent  of  ground  than  any  other  moun- 
tain in  these  parts;  and,  from  its  situation,  the 
summit  commands  a  more  extensive  view  than 
any  other  point  in  Britain. 


NUTTING. 


It  seems  a  day 
(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 
One  of  those  heavenly  days  which  cannot 

die  ; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 
I  left  our  cottage-threshold,  sallying  forth 
With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulder  slung, 
A  nutting-crook  in  hand,   and  turned  my 

steps 
Towards  the  distant  woods,  a  figure  quaint, 
Tricked  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast  off 

weeds 
Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded, 
By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  dame. 
Motley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 
At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles, — and 

in  truth,  [woods, 

More  ragged  than  need  was  !     Among  the 
And  o'er  the  pathless  rocks,   I  forced  my 

way, 
Until,  at  length,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 
Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


89 


Drooped    with    its    withered    leaves,    un- 
gracious sign 
Of  devastation,  but  the  hazels  rose    [hung, 
Tall  and   erect,    with   milk-white  clusters 
A  virgin  scene  ! — A  little  while  I  stood, 
Breathing  with    such    suppression    of  the 

heart 
As  joy  delights  in  ;  and  with  wise  restraint 
Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 
The  banquet,— or  beneath  the  trees  I  sate 
Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers  I 

played  ; 
A  temper  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 
And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 
With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope.  — 
Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose 

leaves 
The  violets  of  five  seasons  re-appear 
And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye  ; 
Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 
For  ever, — and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam, 
Ami  with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green 

stones  [trees, 

That,  fleeced  with  moss,  beneath  the  shady 
Lay  rq^nd    me,  scattered  like  a  flock  of 

sheep,  [sound, 

I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to 

pay 
Tribute  to  ease  ;  and,  of  its  joy  secure, 
The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 
Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 
And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 
And   dragged  to   earth  both  branch  and 

bough,  with  crash 
And  merciless  ravage  ;  and  the  shady  nook 
Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower, 
Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 
Their  quiet  being  :  and,  unless  I  now 
Confound   my   present   feelings   with   the 

past,  [away 

Even  then,  when  from  the  bower  I  turned 
Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 
I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 
The  silent  trees  and  the  intruding  sky. — 
Then,  dearest  maiden  !  move  along  these 

shades 
In  gentleness  of  heart  :  with  gentle  hand 
Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 


But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  wayhy. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,   yet  a  woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
for  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,    blame,    love,    kisses,    tears,    and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


'She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament  ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Like  twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 


0  nightingale  !  thou  surely  art 

A  creature  of  a  fiery  heart  : —  [pierce  ; 

These   notes   of    thine — they    pierce    and 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  ! 
Thou  sing'st  as  if  the  god  of  wine 
Had  helped  thee  to  a  valentine  ; 
A  song  in  mockery  and  despite 
Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night  ; 
And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 
Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 

1  heard  a  stock-dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale  this  very  day  ; 
His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze  ; 

He  did  not  cease  ;  but  cooed — and  cooed 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 
He  sang  of  love  with  quiet  blending, 
Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending  ; 
Of  serious  faith  and  inward  glee  ; 
That  was  the  song— the  song  for  me  ! 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower. 
Then  nature  said,  ' '  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 


90 


POEMS  OF  TEE  IMAGINATION. 


"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 


"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

'  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  nature  spake— the  work  was  done- 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene  ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be. 


\y  A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal  ; 
I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 
The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force  ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees, 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 

With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees  ! 


THE    HORN    OF   EGREMONT 
CASTLE.* 


gateway, 


When  the  brothers  reached  the 

Eustace  pointed  with  his  lance 

To  the  horn  which  there  was  hanging  ; 

Horn  of  the  inheritance. 

Horn  it  was  which  none  could  sound, 

No  one  upon  living  ground, 

Save  he  who  came  as  rightful  heir 

To  Egremont's  domains  and  castle  fair. 

Heirs  from  ages  without  record 
Had  the  house  of  Lucie  born, 
Who  of  right  had  claimed  the  lordship 
By  the  proof  upon  the  horn  : 
Each  at  the  appointed  hour 
Tried  the  horn, — it  owned  his  power  ; 
He  was  acknowledged  :  and  the  blast, 
Which  good  Sir  Eustace  sounded  was  the 
last. 

With  his  lance  Sir  Eustace  pointed. 

And  to  Hubert  thus  said  he — 

' '  What  I  speak  this  horn  shall  witless 

For  thy  better  memory. 

Hear,  then,  and  neglect  me  not ! 

At  this  time,  and  on  this  spot, 

The  words  are  uttered  from  my  heart, 

As  my  last  earnest  prayer  ere  we  depart 

' '  On  good  service  we  are  going 

Life  to  risk  by  sea  and  land, 

In  which  course  if  Christ  our  Saviour 

Do  my  sinful  soul  demand, 

Hither  come  thou  back  straightway, 

Hubert,  if  alive  that  day  ; 

Return,  and  sound  the  horn,  that  we 

May  have  a  living  house  still  left  in  thee  I" 

"  Fear  not !"  quickly  answered  Hubert  ; 
"  As  I  am  thy  father's  son, 
What  thou  askest,  noble  brother, 
With  God's  favour  shall  be  done." 
So  were  both  right  well  content  : 
From  the  castle  forth  they  went, 
And  at  the  head  of  their  array 
To  Palestine  the  brothers  took  their  way 

Side  by  side  they  fought,  (the  Lucies 
Were  a  line  for  valour  famed,) 
And  where'er  their  strokes  alighted, 
There  the  Saracens  were  tamed. 


*  This  story  is  a  Cumberland  tradition ;  I 
have  heard  it  also  related  of  the  Hall  of  Hutton 
John,  an  ancient  residence  of  the  Huddlestones, 
in  a  sequestered  valley  upon  the  river  Dacor. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


hi 


Whence,  then,  could  it  come— the  thought— 
Rv  what  evil  spirit  brought  ? 
Oh  !  can  a  brave  man  wish  to  take    [sake? 
His  brother's   life,  for  land's  and  castle's 

"Sir  I"  the  ruffians  said  to  Hubert, 
N  Deep  he  lies  in  Jordan's  flood," 
Stricken  bv  this  ill  assurance, 
Tale  and  trembling  Hubert  stood. 
-  I  ake  vour  earnings." — Oh  !  that  I 
Could  have  seen  my  brother  die  ! 
It  was  a  pans;  that  vexed  him  then  ; 
And  oft  returned,  again,  and  yet  again. 

Months  passed  on,  and  no  Sir  Eustace  ! 

Nor  of  him  were  tidings  heard. 

Wherefore,  bold  as  day,  the  murderer 

Rack  again  to  England  steered. 

To  his  castle  Hubert  sped  ; 

He  has  nothing  now  to  dread. 

Rut  silent  and  by  stealth  he  came, 

And  at  an  hour  which  nobody  could  name. 

None  could  tell  if  it  were  night-time, 

Night  or  day,  at  even  or  morn  ; 

Eor  the  sound  was  heard  by  no  one 

Of  the  proclamation-horn. 

Rut  bold  Hubert  lives  in  glee  : 

Months  and  years  went  smilingly  ; 

With  plenty  was  his  table  spread  ; 

And  bright'  the  lady  is  who  shares  his  bed. 

Likewise  he  had  sons  and  daughters  ; 
And,  as  good  men  do,  he  sate 
At  his  board  by  these  surrounded, 
Flourishing  in  fair  estate. 
And  while  thus  in  open  day 
Once  he  sate,  as  old  books  say, 
A  blast  was  uttered  from  the  horn, 
Where  by  the  castle-gate  it  hung  forlorn. 

Tis  the  breath  of  good  Sir  Eustace  ! 
He  is  come  to  claim  his  right : 
Ancient  castle,  woods,  and  mountains 
Hear  the  challenge  with  delight. 
Hubert !  though  the  blast  be  blown 
He  is  helpless  and  alone  : 
Thou  hast  a  dungeon,  speak  the  word  ! 
And  there  he  may  be  lodged,  and  thou  be 
lord. 

Speak  ".—astounded  Hubert  cannot ; 

And  if  power  to  speak  he  had, 

All  are  daunted,  all  the  household 

Smitten  to  the  heart,  and  sad. 

Tis  Sir  Eustace  ;  if  it  be 

Living  man,  it  must  be  he  1 

Thus  Hubert  thought  in  his  dismav, 

And  by  a  postern-gate  he  slunk  away. 


Long,  and  long  was  he  unheard  of  : 
To  his  brother  then  he  came, 
Made  confession,  asked  forgiveness, 
Asked  it  by  a  brother's  name, 

And  bv  all  the  saints  in  heaven  ; 

And  of  Eustace  was  forgiven  : 

Then  in  a  convent  went  to  hide 

His  melancholy  head,  and  there  he  died. 

Rut  Sir  Eustace,  whom  good  angels 
Had  preserved  from  murderers'  hands, 
And  from  pagan  chains  had  rescued, 
Lived  with  honour  on  his  lands. 
Sons  he  had,  saw  sons  of  theirs  : 
And  through  ages,  heirs  of  heirs, 
A  long  posterity  renowned,  [sound. 

Sounded  the  horn  which  they  alone  could 


GOODY  RLAKE  AND  HARRY  GILL 

A   TRUE   STORY. 

On:  what's  the  matter?  what's  the  matter? 
What  is't  that  ails  young  Harry  Gill  ? 
That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 
Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still ! 
Of  waistcoats  Harry  has  no  lack, 
Good  duffle  grey,  and  flannel  fine  , 
He  has  a  blanket  on  his  back, 
And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 
'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill  ; 
The  neighbours  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still  ! 
At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 
'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill  ; 
Reneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still ;. 

Young  Harry  was  a  lusty  drover, 
And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he? 
His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover  ; 
His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three. 
Old  Goody  Rlake  was  old  and  poor  ; 
111  fed  she  was,  and  thinly  clad  ; 
And  any  man  who  passed  her  door 
Might  see  how  poor  a  hut  she  had. 

All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling  : 
And  then  her  three  hours'  work  at  night, 
Alas  !  'twas  hardly  worth  the  telling, 
It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light. 
Remote  from  sheltered  village  green, 
On  a  hill's  northern  side  she  dwelt, 
Where  from  sea-blasts  the  hawthorns  lean, 
And  hoary  dews  are  slow  to  melt. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage, 
Two  poor  old  dames,  as  I  have  known, 
Will  often  live  in  one  small  cottage  ; 
But  she,  poor  woman  !  housed  alone. 
'Twas  well  enough  when  summer  came, 
The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer-day, 
Then  at  her  door  the  canty  Dame 
Would  sit,  as  any  linnet  gay. 

But  when  the  ice  our  streams  did  fetter, 
Oh  !  then  how  her  old  bones  would  shake, 
You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her, 
'Twas  a  hard  time  for  Goody  Blake. 
Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead  ! 
Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 
For  very  cold  to  go  to  Ded  ; 
And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink. 

Oh,  joy  for  her  !  whene'er  in  winter 
The  winds  at  night  had  made  a  rout  ; 
And  scattered  many  a  lusty  splinter 
And  many  a  rotten  bough  about. 
Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick, 
As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 
A  pile  beforehand,  turf  or  stick, 
Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 

Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring, 
And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache, 
Could  anything  be  more  alluring 
Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake  ? 
And,  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said, 
When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill, 
She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  bed, 
To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill. 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected 
This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake  ; 
And  vowed  that  she  should  be  detected, 
And  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 
And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he'd  go, 
And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take. 
And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow, 
He  watched  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake. 

And  once,  behind  a  rick  of  barley, 
Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand  : 
The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly, 
And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 
He  hears  a  noise —  he's  all  awake — 
Again  ! — on  tip-toe  down  the  hill 
He  softly  creeps — 'Tis  Goody  Blake, 
She's  at  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill. 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her  \/' 
Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull : 
He  stood  behind  a  bush  of  elder, 
Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full. 


When  with  her  load  she  turned  about, 
The  by-way  back  again  to  take  ; 
He  started  forward  with  a  shout, 
And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Blake. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her, 
And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast, 
And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her, 
And   cried,    "  I've   caught  you,    then,    at 

last  !  " 
Then  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said, 
Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall  ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  prayed 
To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm— 
"  God  !  who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 
Oh,  may  he  never  more  be  warm  !  " 
The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head, 
Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray, 
Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said  : 
And  icy  cold  he  turned  away 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 
That  he  was  cold  and  very  chill  : 
His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow  ; 
Alas  !  that  day  for  Harry  Gill ! 
That  day  he  wore  a  riding-coat, 
But  not  a  whit  the  warmer  he  : 
Another  was  on  Thursday  brought, 
And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three. 

Twas  all  in  vain,  a  useless  matter — 
And  blankets  were  about  him  pinned  ; 
Yet  still  his  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter, 
Like  a  loose  casement  in  the  wind. 
And  Harry's  flesh  it  fell  away  ; 
And  all  who  see  him  say,  'tis  plain, 
That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may, 
He  never  will  be  warm  again. 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters, 
A-bed  or  up,  to  young  or  old  ; 
But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 
"  Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold." 
A-bed  or  up,  by  night  or  day  ; 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 
Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill. 


I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  cloud, 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils  ; 


POEMS  Ofr  7  TIE  IMAGINATION. 


93 


Reside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : — 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company  : 
I  gazed — and  gazed— but  little  thought 
What    wealth     the    show    to     me    had 
brought  • 

For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  day- 
light appears,  [for  three  years  : 

Hangs  a  thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung 

Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has 
heard  [bird. 

In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her? 

She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Loth- 

bury  glide,  [Cheapside. 

And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of 
the  dale,  [her  pail ; 

Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with 

And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a 
dove's  [loves. 

The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but 
they  fade,  [shade  : 

The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the 

The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will 
not  rise,  [her  eyes. 

And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from 


POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

An  Orpheus!  an  Orpheus  !— yes,  faith  may 
grow  bold,  [old  ;— 

And   take   to   herself  all   the  wonders    of 

Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you'll  meet  with 
the  same  [its  name. 

In  the  street  that  irom  Oxford  hath  borrowed 

His  station  is  there  ;— and  he  works  on  the 
crowd,  [loud ; 

He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and 

He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to 
the  brim—  [him  ? 

Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  fiddle  and 

What  an  eager  assembly  !  what  an  empire 
is  this  !  [bliss  ?, 

The  weary  have  life  and  the  hungry  ha.'. 

The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious 
have  rest  ;  [opprest. 

And  the  guilt-burthened  soul  is  no  longer 

As  the  moon  brightens  round  her  the  clou 
of  the  night, 

So  he,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light; 

It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky- 
browed  Jack,  [on  back. 

And  the  pale-visaged  baker's,  with  basket 

That  errand-bound  'prentice  was  passing 
in  haste—  [runs  to  waste— 

What  matter !  he's  caught— and  his  time 

The  newsman  is  stopped,  though  he  stops 
on  the  fret,  [in  the  net  ! 

And  the  half-breathless  lamplighter— he's 

The  porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which 
he  bore  ;  [her  store  ;— 

The   lass   with    her  barrow   wheels  hither 

If  a  thief  could  be  here  he  might  pilfer  at 
ease  ; 

She  sees  the  musician,  tis  all  that  she  sees  1 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  wall  ;— he  abates 
not  his  din  ;  [ping  in, 

His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  drop- 

From  the  old  and  the  young,  from  the 
poorest  ;  and  there  !  [spare. 

The   one-pennied  boy    has    his    penny   to 

Oh,  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  ba 
the  hand  [thankful  a  band  ; 

Of    the    pleasure    it    spreads    through    so 

I  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is  !— all  the 
while  [with  a  smile. 

If  thev  speak  'tis  to  praise,  and  they  praise 


94 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION, 


That  tall  man,    a    giant  in   bulk  and   in 

height, 
Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight  ; 
Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would?  oh, 

not  he  !  [tree. 

The  music  stirs  in  him  like  wind  through  a 

Mark  that  cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch  ; 

like  a  tower 
That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour 

after  hour  ! —  [bound, 

That   mother,    whose    spirit   in   fetters   is 
While  she  dandles  the  babe  in  her  arms  to 

the  sound. 

Now,  coaches  and  chariots !  roar  on  like 
a  stream  ;  [dream  : 

Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a 

They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs — they  care 
not  for  you, 

Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  ye  pursue  ! 


STAR-GAZERS. 

What  crowd  is  this  ?  what  have  we  here ! 

we  must  not  pass  it  by  ; 
A  telescope  upon  its  frame,  and  pointed  to 

the  sky  :  [little  boat, 

Long  is  it  as  a  barber's  pole,   or  mast  of 
Some    little   pleasure-skiff,    that  doth    on 

Thames's  waters  float. 

The  showman  chooses  well  his  place,  'tis 

Leicester's  busy  Square, 
And  is  as   happy    in   his  night,    for   the 

heavens  are  blue  and  fair  ; 
Calm,    though   impatient,  is   the    crowd  ; 

each  stands  ready  with  the  fee, 
And  envies  him   that's  looking — what  an 

insight  must  it  be  ! 

Yet,  showman,   where  can  lie  the  cause? 

Shall  thy  implement  have  blame, 
A  boaster,  that  when  he  is  tried,  fails,  and 

is  put  to  shame  ? 
Or  is  it  good  as  others   are,  and  be  their 

eyes  in  fault  ? 
Their  eyes,  or  minds?  or,    finally,  is  this 

resplendent  vault  ? 

Is  nothing  of  that  radiant  pomp  so  good 

as  we  have  here  ? 
Ur  gives   a  thing    but  small  delight  that 

never  can  be  dear? 
The  silver  moon  with  all   her  vales,  and 

hills  of  mightiest  fame, 
Doth  she  betray  us  when  they're  seen  !  or 

are  they  but  a  name  ? 


Or  is  it  rather  that  conceit  rapacious  i° 

and  strong, 
And   bounty   never  yields    so    much   but 

it  seems  to  do  her  wrong  ? 
Or  is  it  that  when  human  souls  a  journey 

long  have  had, 
And  are  returned    into    themselves    they 

cannot  but  be  sad  ? 

Or  must  we  be  constrained  to  think  that 

these  spectators  rude, 
Poor  in  estate,  of  manners  base,   men  of 

the  multitude, 
Have  souls    which  never  yet  have  risen, 

and  therefore  prostrate  lie  ? 
No,    no,  this   cannot    be — men   thirst    for 

power  and  majesty  ! 

Does,  then,   a  deep   and  earnest  thought 

the  blissful  mind  employ 
Of  him  who  gazes,  or  has  gazed  ?  a  grave 

and  steady  joy. 
That  doth  reject  all  show  of  pride,   admits 

no  outward  sign, 
Because    not    of    this    noisy    world,    but 

silent  and  divine ! 

Whatever  be  the  cause,  'tis  sure  that  they 
who  pry  and  pore 

Seem  to  meet  with  little  gain,  seem  less 
happy  than  before  ; 

One  after  one  they  take  their  turn,  nor 
have  I  one  espied 

That  doth  not  slackly  go  away,  as  if  dis- 
satisfied. 


THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

TO  

Thosf.  silver  clouds   collected  round  the 
sun  [less 

His  mid-day  warmth   abate  not,  seeming 
To  overshade  than  multiply  his  beams 
By  soft  reflection — grateful  to  the  sky, 
To  rocks,    fields,    woods.     Nor  doth  our 

human  sense 
Ask,  for  its  pleasure,  screen  or  canopy 
More  ample  than  the  time-dismantled  oak 
Spreads  o'er  this  tuft  of  heath,  which  now, 

attired 
In  the  whole  fulness  of  its  bloom,  affords 
Couch  beautiful  as  e'er  for  earthly  use  [art, 
Was  fashioned  ;  whether  by  the  hand  of 
That    eastern    sultan,    amid    flowers    en- 
wrought 
On  silken  tissue,  might  diffuse  his  limbs 


VOFMS  OF  TIFF  IMAGINATION. 


95 


I  n  languor  ;  or,  by  nature,  for  repose 
Of  panting   wood-nymph   wearied  by  the 
( I  lady !  fairer  in  thy  poet's  sight      [chase. 
i  ban  fairest  spiritual  creature  of  the  groves, 
Approach— and    thus  invited  crown  with 

rest  [there  are 

The  noon-tide  hour  ;— though   truly  some 
Whose  footsteps  superstitiously  avoid 
This  venerable  tree  ;  for,  when  the  wind 
Blows   keenly,    it   sends  forth  a   creaking 

sound 
(Above  the  general  roar  of  woods  and  crags) 
I  distinctly  heard  from  far— a  doleful  note  ! 
As  if  (so  Grecian  shepherds  would  have 

deemed) 
The  Hamadryad,  pent  within,  bewailed 
Some  bitter  wrong.      Nor  is  it  unbelieved, 
By  ruder  fancy,  that  a  troubled  ghost 
Haunts  this   old  trunk  ;  lamenting  deeds 

of  which  [wind 

The  flowery  ground  is  conscious.     But  no 
Sweeps  now  along  this  elevated  ridge  ; 
Not  even  a  zephyr  stirs  ; — the  obnoxious 

tree  [down, 

Is  mute, —and,  in  his  silence,  would   look 
O  lovely  wanderer  of  the  trackless  hills, 
On  thy  reclining  form  with  more  delight 
Than  his  coevals,  in  the  sheltered  vale 
Seem  to  participate,  the  whilst  they  view 
Their  own  far  strct.  ling  arms  and  leafy 

heads 
Vividly  pictured  in  some  glassy  pool, 
That,     for    a    brief     space,     checks    the 

hurrying  stream  ! 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH, 

WHILE   RESTING  ON  THE   BRIDGE  AT  THE 
FOOT  OF   BROTHER'S   WATER. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  art  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 
The  snow  hath  retreated, 
And  now  doth  fare  ill 
On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  plough-boy  is  whooping — anon — anon : 


There's  joy  in  the  mountains  ; 
There's  life  in  the  fountains  ; 
Small  clouds  are  sailing, 
Blue  sky  prevailing  ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone  ! 


GIPSIES. 

Yet  are  they  here  the  same  unbroken  knot 

Of  human  beings,  in  the  self-same  spot  ! 
Men,  women,  children,  yea,  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  spectacle  the  same  \ 

Only  their  fire  seems  bolder,  yielding  light, 

Now  deep  and  red,  the  colouring  ofnight  ' 
That  on  their  gipsv-faces  falls, 
Their  bed  of  straw  and  blanket-walls. 

Twelve  hours,  twelve  bounteous  hours, 
are  gone,  while  I 

Have  been  a  traveller  under  open  sky, 
Much  witnessing  of  change  and  cheer 
Yet  as  I  left  I  find  them  here  ! 

The  weary  sun  betook  himself  to  rest, 

Then  issued  vesper  from  the  fulgent  west, 
Outshining  like  a  visible  god 
The  glorious  path  in  which  he  trod. 

And  now,  ascending,  after  one  dark  hour 

And  one  night's  diminution  of  her  power, 
Behold  the  mighty  moon  !  this  way- 
She  looks  as  if  at  them — but  they 

Regard  not  her  : — oh    better  wrong  and 
strife, 

(By  nature  transient)  than  such  torpid  life  ; 
Life  which  the  very  stars  reprove 
As  on  their  silent  tasks  they  move  ! 

Yet  witness  all  that  stirs  in  heaven  or  earth  ! 

In  scorn  I  speak  not  ;  they  are  what  their 
birth 
And  breeding  suffer  them  to  be  ; 
Wild  outcasts  of  society  ! 


BEGGARS. 

She  had  a  tall  man's  height,  or  more  ; 
No  bonnet  screened  her  from  the  heat  ; 
Nor  claimed  she  service  from  the  hood 
Of  a  blue  mantle,  to  her  feet 
Depending  with  a  graceful  flow  ; 
Only  she  wore  a  cap  pure  as  unsullied  snow. 

Her  skin  was  of  Egyptian  brown  ; 
Haughty  as  if  her  eye  had  seen 
Its  own  light  to  a  distance  thrown, 
She  towered — fit  person  for  a  queen, 
To  head  those  ancient  Amazonian  files  ; 
Or  ruling  bandit's  wife  among  the  Grecian 
isles. 


96 


WE3IS  OF  THE  UtAGINATlOX. 


Her  suit  no  faltering  scruples  checked  ; 
Forth  did  she  pour,  in  current  free, 
Tales  that  could  challenge  no  respect 
But  from  a  blind  credulity; 
And  yet  a  boon  I  gave  her  ;  for  the  creature 
Was  beautiful  to  see — a  weed  of  glorious 
feature  : 

I  left  her  and  pursued  my  way; 
And  soon  before  me  did  espy 
A  pair  of  little  boys  at  play, 
Chasing  a  crimson  butterfly: 
The  taller  followed  with  his  hat  in  hand, 
Wreathed  round  with  yellow  flowers  the 
gayest  of  the  land. 

The  other  wore  a  rimless  crown 
With  leaves  of  laurel  stuck  about; 
And,  while  both  followed  up  and  down, 
Each  whooping  with  a  merry  shout, 
In  their  fraternal  features  I  could 'trace 
Unquestionable  lines  of  that  wild  suppliant's 
face. 

Yet  they,  so  blithe  of  heart,  seemed  fit 

For  finest  tasks  of  earth  or  air  : 

Wings  let  them  have,  and  they  might  flit 

Precursors  of  Aurora's  car, 

Scattering  fresh   flowers  ;  though   happier 

far,  I  ween, 
To  hunt  their  fluttering  game  o'er  rock  and 

level  green. 

They  dart  across  my  path — but  lo, 
Each  ready  with  a  plaintive  whine  ! 
Said  I,  "  Not  half  an  hour  ago 
i'our  mother  has  had  alms  of  mine." 
"That  cannot  be,"  one  answered — "she 

is  dead  " — 
I   looked   reproof — they  saw — but  neither 

hung  his  head. 

"  She  has  been  dead,  sir,  many  a  day." 
"  Sweet  boys;  Heaven  hears  that  rash  reply; 
It  was  your  mother,  as  I  say  !" 
And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
"  Come  !  come  !"  cried  one,  and  without 
more  ado,  [flew  ! 

Off  to  some  other  play  the  joyous  vagrants 


With  tools  for  ready  wit  to  guide; 

And  ornaments  of  seemlier  pride, 

More  fresh,  more  bright,  than  princes  wea  •; 

For  what  one  moment  flung  aside, 

Another  could  repair  ; 

What  good  or  evil  have  they  seen 

Since  1  their  pastime  witnessed  here, 

Their  daring  wiles,  their  sportive  cheer  ? 

I  ask — but  all  is  dark  between  ! 

Spirits  of  beauty  and/.bf  grace  ! 
Associates  in  that  eager  chase  , 
Ye,  by  a  course  to  nature  true, 
The  sterner  judgment  can  subdue; 
And  waken  a  relenting  smile 
When  she  encounters  fraud  or  guile  ; 
And  sometimes  ye  can  charm  away 
The  inward  mischief,  or  allay, 
Ye,  who  within  the  blameless  mind 
Your  favourite  seat  of  empire  find  ! 

They  met  me  in  a  genial  hour, 

When  universal  nature  breathed 

As  with  the  breath  of  one  sweet  flower, — 

A  time  to  overrule  the  power 

Of  discontent,  and  check  the  birth 

Of  thoughts  with  better  thoughts  at  strife. 

The  most  familiar  bane  of  life 

Since  parting  innocence  bequeathed 

Mortality  to  earth  ! 

Soft  clouds,  the  whitest  of  the  year, 

Sailed  through   the  sky — the  brooks  ran 

clear ; 
The  lambs  from  rock  to  rock  were  bounding  : 
With  songs  the  budded  groves  resounding ; 
And  to  my  heart  is  still  endeared 
The  faith  with  which  it  then  was  cheered ; 
The  faith  which  saw  that  gladsome  pair 
Walk  through  the  fire  with  unsinged  hair. 
Or,  if  such  thoughts  must  needs  deceive, 
Kind  spirits  !  may  we  not  believe 
That  they  so  happy  and  so  fair, 
Through  your  sweet  influence,  and  the  care 
Of  pitying  Heaven,  at  least  were  free 
From  touch  of  deadly  injury  ? 
Destined,  whate'er  their  earthly  doom, 
For  mercy  and  immortal  bloom  ! 


SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING, 

COMPOSED   MANY   YEARS   AFTER. 


RUTH. 


WHEN  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 
Her  father  took  another  mate  ; 
Where  are  they  now,  those  wanton  boys?    And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
For  whose  free  range  the  daedal  earth  A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 

Was  filled  with  animated  toys,  Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 

And  implements  of  frolic  mirth  ;  j  In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 


POEMS  OF  TEE  IMAGINATION. 


07 


And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw, 
And  from  that  oaten  pipe  could  draw 
All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seemed  to  live ;  her  thoughts  her  own  ; 

Herself  her  own  delight  ; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad  nor  gay  ; 

And  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  youth  from  Georgia's  shore — 

A  military  casque  he  wore, 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung  : 
Ah  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue, 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name  ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek 
In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak. 
While  he  was  yet  a  boy, 
The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth  !     I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he  ; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought  ; 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 
Such  tales  as  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade, 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls— a  happy  rout ! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long  ; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  divine  and  strange 
That  everv  hour  their  blossoms  change, 


Ten  thousand  lovely  hues  ! 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  ! 
The  cypress  and  her  spire  ; 
Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannas  spake, 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake, 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

And  then  he  said,  "  How  sweet  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

A  gardener  in  the  shade, 

Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind 

To  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every  glade  ! 

"What  days  and  what  sweet  years !  Ah  me  ! 

Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 

So  passed  in  quiet  bliss, 

And  all  the  while,"  said  he,  "  to  know 

That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this  !" 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Dear  thoughts  about  a  father's  love  : 
"  For  there,"  said  he,  "  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

"  Sweet  Ruth  !  and  could  you  go  with  me 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Oui  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 

"  Beloved  Ruth  1" — No  more  he  said. 
The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A  solitary  tear  : 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

"  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right. 
We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A  husband  and  a  wife." 


98 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Even  so  they  did  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods, 
And  green  savannas,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  west. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 

The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky, 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth — so  much  of  heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seemed  alliec1 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent  : 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 
For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  la\v 
Nor  better  life  was  known  ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived, 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  : 
A  man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 


And  yet  he  with  no  feigned  delight 
Had  wooed  the  maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn  : 
"What  could  he  less  than  love  a  maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  played  > 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ! 

Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 
' '  O  Ruth  !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain, 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
I  crossed  the  Atlantic  main. 

"  It  was  a  fresh  and  glorious  world, 
A  banner  bright  that  was  unfurled 
Before  me  suddenly  : 
I  looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains 
To  live  at  liberty. 

"  But  wherefore  speak  of  this?     For  now. 
Sweet  Ruth  !  with  thee,  I  know  not  how, 
I  feel  my  spirit  burn — 
Even  as  the  east  when  day  comes  forth  ; 
And,  to  the  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
The  morning  doth  return." 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  was  gone  ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remained,  not  one, — 
They  stirred  him  now  no  more  ; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give  ; 
And  once  again  he  wished  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 
Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth        / 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

God   help   thee,   Ruth  ! — Such    pains  she 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad, '        [had. 

And  in  a  prison  housed  ; 

And  there  she  sang  tumultuous  songs, 

By  recollection  of  her  wrongs, 

To  fearful  passion  roused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 
They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell ; 
And  a  wild  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain  ; 


VOBMB  OF  THE  TMAGTNATTON. 


99 


She  from  her  prison  fled  ; 
Hut  of  the  vagrant  none  took  thought  ; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again  : 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 
And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone,* 
There  did  she  rest  ;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 
That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 
And  airs  that  gently  stir 
The  vernal  leaves,  she  loved  them  still, 
Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 
Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  barn  her  winter  bed  supplies  ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Re  broken  down  and  old  : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have !  but  le.-s 

Of  mind  than  body's  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  pressed  by  want  of  food, 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a  road-side  ; 
And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

'   That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute, 
Or  thrown  away  :  but  with  a  flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers  : 
This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk, 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  wa!k 
The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I   too,  have  passed  her  on  the  hills 

Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild — 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  turned 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourned, 
A  young  and  happy  child  ! 


•  A  river  in  Somersetshire,  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  the  Quantock  Hills. 


Farewell !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 
Ill-fated  Ruth  1  in  hallowed' mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be  ; 
For  thee  a  funera'  bell  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  congregation  sing 
A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 


LAODAMIA. 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I   made  by  fruitless  hope  in- 
spired ;  [forlorn, 
And  from  the  infernal  gods,    mid  shades 
Of   night,    my   slaughtered   lord    have    I 

required  : 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  ; — 
Restore    him    to    my  sight — great    Jove, 
restore  !" 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 
With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts 

her  hands  ; 
While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 
Her  countenance  brightens— and  her  eye 

expands ;  [grows ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature 
And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0  terror!    what   hath    she    perceived?— 

O  joy  !  [behold  ? 

What  doth  she  look  on? — whom  doth  she 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy? 
His  vital  presence — his  corporeal  mould? 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — 'tis  he  ! 
And  a  god  leads  him — winged  Mercury! 

Mild  Hermes  spake — and  touched  her  with 
his  wand  [crowned  thy  prayer, 

That  calms  all  fear :    ' '  Such  grace  hath 
Laodamia  !  that  at  Jove's  command 
Thy   husband   walks   the   paths  of  upper, 
air  :  [space  ; 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hoursj 
Accept  the  gift— behold  him  face  to  face !' 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen  her 

lord  to  clasp  ! 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 
But  unsubstantial  form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 
The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  re-unite. 
And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

1  "  Protesilaus,  lo  !  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice*. 

',  This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne  : 


100 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will 

rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This    precious    boon, — and    blest    a   sad 

abode." 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamla  !  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect : — spectre  though  I  be, 
I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive  ; 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 
And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 
For    fearless    virtue    bringeth    boundless 
gain. 

"Thou  know'st,  the  Delphic  oracle  fore- 
told [Trojan  strand 
That    the    first    Greek   who   touched   the 
Should  die  ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not 

withhold  : 
A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand  ; 
And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain  '; 
A  self-devoted  chief— by  Hector  slain."' 

"Supreme    of    heroes — bravest,     noblest 

best  ! 
Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more, 
Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were 

depiest 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 
Thou  found'st— and  I  forgive   thee— here 

thou  art — 
A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

"But    thou,    though   capable    of  sternest 

deed, 
W'ert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave  ; 
And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath 

decreed  [the  grave  ; 

That  thou  shouldst  cheat  the   malice    of 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  ' 


And  surely  as  they  vanish.— Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly— Erebus  disdains  :   ' 
Calm  pleasures  there  abide— majestic  pains. 

"  Be  taught,  O  faithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion  :  for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,   and   not   the   tumult,   of  the 

soul  ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable  love. 
Thy    transports    moderate ;    and    meekly 

mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn—" 

"Ah,    wherefore ?— Did  not  Hercules  by 

force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the 

tomb 
Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse 
Given  back  to   dwell  on  earth  in   vernal 

at    ,bl?om?„  lyears, 

Medea  s   spells   dispersed    the    weight   of 
And  Mson  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful 
peers. 

"  The  gods  to  us  are  merciful— and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the 

sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 
And  though  his  favourite  seat  be 'feeble 

woman's  breast. 


"  No  spectre  greets  me,— no  vain  shadow 

this  : 
Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my 

side!  [kiss 

Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride!" 
Jove   frowned   in   heaven ;    the   conscious 

Parcas  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is 

past : 
Know,  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 


!'But  if  thou  goest  I  follow—"  "  Peace  '" 

he  said — 
She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and 

cheered  ; 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled  ■ 
In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  ap- 
peared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 
Brought  from  a  pensive,  though  'a  happy 
piace. 


He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure  ■ 
No  fears  to  beat  away— no  strife  to  heal— 
Ihe    past   unsighed   for,    and   the    future 

sure  ; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued  : 

Of  all  that  is    most    beauteous— imaged 

there 
In  happier  beauty  ;  more  pellucid  streams 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 
And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams  ■ 


POMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


101 


Climes   which   the    sun,    who    sheds    the 

brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Vet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath 

earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue. — "  111,"  said  he, 
"  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,   when  we   had  parted,   vain 

delight  [and  night  : 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,— day 

"  And  while  my  youthful  peers,  before  my 

eyes, 
(Each*  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  de- 
tained ; 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

"  The  wished-for  wind  was  given  : — I  then 

revolved 
The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea  ; 
And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should 

be  [strand, — 

The   foremost    prow   in    pressing   to    the 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan 

sand. 

"Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 
When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  wife  ! 
On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 
And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, — 
The  paths  which  we  had  trod — these  foun- 
tains— flowers  ; 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished 
towers. 

' '  But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to 
cry,  [array, 

'  Behold,    they    tremble  ! — haughty    their 
Vet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  1' — 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away  : 
Old    frailties    then    recurred  :— but    lofty 

thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

"And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all 
too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow  ; 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympa- 
thized ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 


' '  Learn  by  a  mortal  yearning  to  ascend 
Towards  a  higher  object. — Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,   chiefly  for  that 

end : 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 
That  self  might  be  annulled  :  her  bondage 

prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love." 

Aloud  she  shrieked  !  for  Hermes  re- 
appears ! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have 
clung — 'tis  vain. 

The  hours  are  past— too  brief  had  they 
been  years  ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not 
earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  she 
lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  gods  be  moved  ; 
She  who   thus   perished   not  without  the 

crime 
Of  lovers  that  in  reason's  spite  have  loved, 
Was  doomed  to  wander  in  a  grosser  clime, 
Apart    from    happy    ghosts— that    gather 

flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrow  n 
Are  mourned    by  man,   and  not  by  man 

alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes.— Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she 

died  ; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  theyhad  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were    subject   to  their 

view, 
The  trees'  tall  summitswithered  at  the  sight ; 
A   constant    interchange   of    growth    and 

blight !  * 

Her  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare, 
The  sun  has  burnt  her  coal-black  hair  ; 
Her  eyebrows  have  a  rusty  stain, 
And  she  came  far  from  over  the  main. 

*  For  the  account  of  these  long-lived  trees, 
•-ee  Pliny's  Natural  History,  lib.  16,  cap.  44  ;  and 
for  the  features  in  the  character  of  Protesilaus 
see  the  "  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  "  of  Euripides. — Vir- 
gil places  the  shade  of  Laodamia  in  a  mournful 
region-  among  unhappy  lovers. 


102 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


She  has  a  baby  on  her  arm, 

Or  else  she  were  alone  ; 

And  underneath  the  hay-stack  warm, 

And  on  the  green-wood  stone, 

She  talked  and  sung  the  woods  among, 

And  it  was  in  the  English  tongue. 

"Sweet  babe  !  they  say  that  I  am  mad, 
But  nay,  my  heart  is  far  too  glad  ; 
And  I  am  happy  when  I  sing 
Full  many  a  sad  and  doleful  thing  : 
Then,  lovely  baby,  do  not  fear  ! 
I  pray  thee  have  no  fear  of  me, 
But,  safe  as  in  a  cradle,  here, 
My  lovely  baby  1  thou  shalt  be  : 
To  thee  I  know  too  much  I  owe  ; 
I  cannot  work  thee  any  woe. 

A  fire  was  once  within  my  brain  , 
And  in  my  head  a  dull,  dull  pain  ; 
And  fiendish  faces,  one,  two,  three, 
Hung  at  my  breast,  and  pulled  at  me. 
But  then  there  came  a  sight  of  joy  : 
It  came  at  once  to  do  me  good  ; 
I  waked,  and  saw  my  little  boy, 
My  little  boy  of  flesh  and  blood  ; 
Oh,  joy  for  me  that  sight  to  see  ! 
For  he  was  here,  and  only  he. 

"  Suck,  little  babe,  oh,  suck  again  ! 
It  cools  my  blood  ;  it  cools  my  brain  ; 
Thy  lips  1  feel  them,  baby  !  they 
Draw  from  my  heart  the  pain  away. 
Oh  !  press  me  with  thy  little  hand  ; 
It  loosens  something  at  my  chest  ; 
About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 
I  feel  thy  little  fingers  prest. 
The  breeze  I  see  is  in  the  tree  : 
It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me. 

"  Oh  !  love  me,  love  me,  little  boy  ! 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  only  joy  ; 
And  do  not  dread  the  waves  below, 
When  o'er  the  sea-rock's  edge  we  go  ; 
The  high  crag  cannot  work  me  harm, 
Nor  leaping  torrents  when  they  howl  ; 
The  babe  I  carry  on  my  arm, 
He  saves  for  me  my  precious  soul : 
Then  happy  lie,  for  blest  am  I  ; 
Without  me  my  sweet  babe  would  die. 

' '  Then  do  not  fear,  my  boy  !  for  thee 
Bold  as  a  lion  I  will  be  ; 
And  I  will  always  be  thy  guide, 
Through  hollow  snows  and  rivers  wide. 
I'll  build  an  Indian  bower  ;  I  know 
The  leaves  that  make  the  softest  bed  : 


And,  if  from  me  thou  wilt  not  go, 
But  still  be  true  till  I  am  dead, 
My  pretty  thing  !  then  thou  shalt  sing 
As  merry  as  the  birds  in  spring. 

"  Thy  father  cares  not  for  my  breast, 
'Tis  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest  ; 
'Tis  all  thine  own  ! — and,  if  its  hue 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 
'Tis  fair  enough  for  thee,  my  dove  ! 
My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown  ; 
But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love, 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown  ? 
'Tis  well  for  me,  thou  canst  not  see 
How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be. 

"  Dread  not  their  taunts,  my  little  life  ; 
I  am  thy  father's  wedded  wife  ; 
And  underneath  the  spreading  tree 
We  two  will  live  in  honesty. 
If  his  sweet  boy  he  could  forsake, 
With  me  he  never  would  have  stayed  : 
From  him  no  harm  my  babe  can  take, 
But  he,  poor  man  !  is  wretched  made  ; 
And  every  day  we  two  will  pray 
For  him  that's  gone  and  far  away 

"  I'll  teach  my  boy  the  sweetest  things 
I'll  teach  him  how  the  owlet  sings. 
My  little  babe  !  thy  lips  are  still, 
And  thou  hast  almost  sucked  thy  fill. 
Where  art  thou  gone,  my  own  dear  child  i 
What  wicked  looks  are  those  I  see? 
Alas  !  alas  !  that  look  so  wild, 
It  never,  never  came  from  me  : 
If  thou  art  mad,  my  pretty  lad, 
Then  I  must  be  for  ever  sad. 

"  Oh,  smile  on  me,  my  little  lamb  ! 

For  I  thy  own  dear  mother  am. 

My  love  for  thee  has  well  been  tried  : 

I've  sought  thy  father  far  and  wide. 

I  know  the  poisons  of  the  shade, 

I  know  the  earth-nuts  fit  for  food  ; 

Then,  pretty  dear,  be  not  afraid  ; 

We'll  find  thy  father  in  the  wood. 

Now  laugh  and  be  gay,  to  the  woods  away  ! 

And  there,  my  babe,  we'll  live  for  aye." 


RESOLUTION    AND     INDE- 
PENDENCE. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night ; 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods  ; 
But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright ; 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods  : 


POEMS  OF  TEE  .IMAGINATION. 


103 


Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock-dove 

broods ;  [ters ; 

The  jay  makes  answer  as  the  magpie  chat- 

And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise 

of  waters. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors  : 
The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth  ; 
The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops  ;— on 

the  moors 
The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth  ; 
And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 
Raises  a  mist ;  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she 

doth  run. 

I  was  a  traveller  then  upon  the  moor  ; 
I  saw  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy  ; 
I  heard  the  woods,  the  distant  waters,  roar, 
Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy  : 
The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ  : 
My    old    remembrances   went    from    me 
wholly ;  [melancholy  ! 

And  all  the  ways  of   men  so  vain  and 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the 

might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low, 
To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so  ; 
And  fears,  and  fancies,  thick  upon  me  came  ; 
Dim  sadness — and  blind  thoughts,  1  knew 

not,  nor  could  name. 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  warbling  in  the  sky  ; 
And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare  : 
Even  such  a  happy  child  of  earth  am  I  ; 
Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I  fare  ; 
Farfrom  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all  care  ; 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,  painof'  eart,  distress,  and  poverty? 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant 
thought, 

As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood  ; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  un- 
sought 

To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good  ; 

But  how  can  he  expect  that  others  should 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no 
heed  at  all  ? 

I  thought  of  C'hatterton,  thematvellousboy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride ; 
Of  him  who  w  aiked  in  glory  and  in  joy 


Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain 

side  : 
By  our  own  spirits  nre  wc  deified  : 
We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness  ; 
But  thereof  comes  in  the  end  despondency 

and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 
A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 
Yet  it  befel,  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 
When  I  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had 

striven, 
Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I  saw  a  man  before  me  unawares  : 
The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore 

gray  hairs. 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence; 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy, 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and 

whence ; 
So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense  : 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a 

shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself ; 

Such  seemed  this  man,  not  all  alive  nordead, 
Nor  all  asleep — in  his  extreme  old  age  : 
His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage  ; 
As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 
Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 
A  more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame 
had  cast. 

Himself  he  propped,  his  body,  limbs,  and 

face, 
Upon  a  long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood  : 
And,  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood  ; 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they 

call; 
And  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  aad  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned, 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book  : 
And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took  ; 
And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 
"  This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a  glo- 
rious day." 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  man  make, 
In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly 
drew : 


104 


POEMS  OF  TEE  IMAGINATION. 


And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 
"  What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue? 
This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you." 
He  answered,  while  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 
Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet  vivid 
eyes. 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest, 
But  each  hi  solemn  order  followed  each, 
With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest  ; 
Choice  word,  and  measured  phrase,  above 

the  reach 
Of  ordinary  men  ;  a  stately  speech  ; 
Such  as  grave  livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 
Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man 

their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor  : 
Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  ! 
And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure  : 
From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor 
to  moor  ;  [or  chance  ; 

Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice 
And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  main- 
tenance. 

The  old  man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side  ; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 
Scarce  heard  ;  nor  word  from  word  could  I 

divide  ; 
And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like    one  whom    I  had    met  with    in    a 

dream  ; 
Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 
To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  ad- 
monishment. 

My  former  though*  returned  :  the  fear  that 

kills;  '  ' 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed  ; 
Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills  ; 
And  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead. 
Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted 
My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 
"^ '  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you 
do?" 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ; 
And  said,  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and 

wide 
He  travelled  ;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 
"Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every 

side  ; 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay; 
Vet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I 

may." 


While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 
The   old  man's  shape,    and    speech,    all 

troubled  me  : 
In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually, 
Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 
While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself  pur- 
sued, [course  renewed. 
He,  having  made  a  pause,   the  same  dis- 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended, 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanour  kind, 
But  stately  in  the  main  ;  and  when  he  ended, 
I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to  find 
In  that  decrepit  man  so  firm  a  mind. 
f  God,"  said  I,  "be  my  help  and  stay 
secure  ;  [lonely  moor  !" 

Vni   think   of    the  leech-gatherer    on    the 


THE  THORN. 

"  There  is  a  thorn — it  looks  so  old, 
In  truth,  you'd  find  it  hard  to  say- 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young, 
It  looks  so  old  and  gray. 
Not  higher  than  a  two  years'  child 
It  stands  erect,  this  aged  thorn  ; 
No  leaves  it  has,  no  thorny  points  ; 
It  is  a  mass  of  knotted  joints, 
A  wretched  thing  forlorn. 
It  stands  erect,  and  like  a  stone 
With  lichens  it  is  overgrown. 

' '  Like  rock  or  stone,  it  is  o'ergrown, 

With  lichens  to  the  very  top, 

And  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss, 

A  melancholy  crop  : 

Up  from  the  earth  these  mosses  creep, 

And  this  poor  thorn  they  clasp  it  round 

So  close,  you'd  say,  that  they  were  bent 

Writh  plain  and  manifest  intent 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground  ; 

And  all  had  joined  in  one  endeavour 

To  bury  this  poor  thorn  for  ever. 

"  High  on  a  mountain's  highest  ridge, 
Where  oft  the  stormy  winter  gale 
Cuts  like  a  scythe,  while  through  the  clouds 
It  sweeps  from  vale  to  vale  ; 
Not  five  yards  from  the  mountain  path, 
This  thorn  you  on  your  left  espy  ; 
And  to  the  left,  three  yards  beyond. 
You  see  a  little  muddy  pond 
Of  water — never  dry  ; 
Though  but  of  compass  small,  and  bare 
I  To  thirsty  suns  and  parching  air. 


roEim  of  the  imagination. 


105 


'  And,  close  beside  this  aged  thorn, 

There  is  a  fresh  and  lovely  sight, 

A  beauteous  heap,  a  hill  of  moss, 

Just  half  afoot  in  height. 

All  lovely  colours  there  you  see, 

All  colours  that  were  ever  seen  ; 

And  mossy  net-work  too  is  there, 

As  if  by  hand  of  lady  fair 

The  work  had  woven  been  ; 

And  cups,  the  darlings  of  the  eye, 

So  deep  is  their  vermilion  dye. 

"  All  me  !  what  lovely  tints  are  the. 

Of  olive  green  and  scarlet  blight, 

In  spikes,  in  branches,  and  in  stars, 

Green,  red,  and  pearly  white. 

This  heap  of  earth  o'ergrown  with  moss, 

Which  close  beside  the  thorn  you  see, 

So  fresh  in  all  its  beauteous  dyes, 

Is  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 

As  like  as  like  can  be  : 

Hut  never,  never  any  where, 

An  infant's  grave  was  half  so  fair. 

"  Now  would  you  see  rnis  aged  thorn, 

This  pond,  and  beauteous  hill  of  moss, 

You  must  take  care  and  choose  your  time 

The  mountain  when  to  cross. 

For  oft  there  sits  between  the  heap 

So  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 

And  that  same  pond  of  which  I  spoke, 

A  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

'Oh,  misery  !  oh,  misery  ! 

Dh,  woe  is  me  !  oh,  misery  !' 

"  At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 
This  wretched  woman  thither  goes  ; 
And  she  is  known  to  every  star, 
And  every  wind  that  blows  ; 
And  there,  beside  the  thorn,  she  sits 
When  the  blue  daylight's  in  the  skies, 
And  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill, 
Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 
And  to  herself  she  cries, 
'  Oh,  misery  !  oh,  misery  ! 
Oh,  woe  is  me  !  oh,  misery  !" 

' '  Now  wherefore,  thus,  by  day  and  night, 

In  rain,  in  tempest,  and  in  snow, 

Thus  to  the  dreary  mountain-ton 

Does  this  poor  woman  go  ? 

And  why  sits  she  beside  the  thorn 

When  the  blue  daylight's  in  the  sky, 

Or  when  the  whirlwind's  on  the  hill, 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 

And  wherefore  does  she  cry? — 

Oh,  wherefore?  wherefore?  tell  me  why 

Does  she  repeat  that  doleful  cry?" 


"  I  cannot  tell  ;   I  wish  I  could  ; 
For  the  true  reason  no  one  knows  : 
But  would  you  gladly  view  the  spot, 
The  spot  to  which  she  goes  ; 
The  hillock  like  an  infant's  grave, 
The  pond — and  thorn    so  old  and  £ray  ; 
Pass  by  her  door — 'tis  seldom  shut — 
And,  if  you  sec  her  in  her  hut, 
Then  to  the  spot  away  ! — 
I  never  heard  of  such  as  dare 
Approach  the  spot  when  she  is  there." 

"  But  wherefore  to  the  mountain-top 

Can  this  unhappy  woman  go, 

Whatever  stai.  ts  in  the  skies, 

Whatever  wind  may  blow  ?" 

"'Tis  known,  that  twei  ty  years  arc  passed 

Since  she  (her  name  is  Martha  Ray) 

Gave  with  a  maiden's  true  good  will 

Her  company  to  Stephen  Hill ; 

And  she  was  blithe  and  gay, 

While  friends  and  kindred  all  approved 

Of  him  whom  tenderly  she  loved. 

"And  they  had  fixed  the  wedding  day, 

The  morning  that  must  wed  them  both  ; 

But  Stephen  to  another  maid 

Had  sworn  another  oath  ; 

And  with  this  other  maid  to  church 

Unthinking  Stephen  went — 

Toor  Martha  !  on  that  woeful  day 

A  pang  of  pitiless  dismay 

Into  her  soul  was  sent  ; 

A  fire  was  kindled  in  her  breast, 

Which  might  not  burn  itself  to  rest. 

"  They  say,  full  six  months  after  this, 

While  yet  the  summer  leaves  were  green, 

She  to  the  mountain-top  \yould  go, 

And  there  was  often  seen.* 

Alas  !  her  lamentable  state 

Even  to  a  careless  eye  was  plain  ; 

She  was  with  child,  and  she  was  mad  ; 

Yet  often  she  was  sober  sad 

From  her  exceeding  pain. 

O  guilty  father, — would  that  death 

Had  saved  him  from  that  breach  of  faith! 

"  Sad  case  for  such  a  brain  to  hold 

Communion  with  a  stirring  child  ! 

Sad  case,  as  you  may  think,  tor  one 

Who  had  a  brain  so  wild  ! 

Last  Christmas-eve  we  talked  of  this, 

And  gray-haired  Wilfred  of  the  glen 

Held  that  the  unborn  infant  wrought 

About  its  mother's  heart,  and  brought 

Her  senses  back  again  : 

And  when  at  last  her  time  drew  near 

Her  looks  were  calm,  her  senses  clear. 


106 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


"  More  know  I  not,  I  wish  I  did, 

And  it  should  all  be  told  to  you  ; 

For  what  became  of  this  poor  child 

No  mortal  ever  knew  ; 

Nay— if  a  child  to  her  was  born 

No  earthly  tongue  could  ever  tell  ; 

And  if  'twas  born  alive  or  dead, 

Far  less  could  this  with  proof  be  said  ; 

But  some  remember  well, 

That  Martha  Ray  about  this  time 

Would  up  the  mountain  often  climb. 

"And all  that  winter,  when  at  night 
The  wind  blew  from  the  mountain-peak, 
'Twas   worth  your  while,    though  in   the 

dark, 
The  church-yard  path  to  seek  : 
For  many  a  time  and  oft  were  heard 
Cries  coming  from  the  mountain-head  : 
Some  plainly  living  voices  were  ; 
And  others,  I've  heard  many  swear, 
Were  voices  of  the  dead  : 
I  cannot  think,  whate'er  they  say, 
They  had  to  do  with  Martha  Ray. 

"  But  that  she  goes  to  this  old  thorn, 
The  thorn  which  I  described  to  you, 
And  there  sits  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 
I  will  be  sworn  is  true. 
For  one  day  with  my  telescope, 
To  view  the  ocean  wide  and  bright, 
When  to  this  country  first  I  came, 
Ere  I  had  heard  of  Martha's  name, 
I  climbed  the  mountain's  height : 
A  storm  came  on,  and  I  could  see 
No  object  higher  than  my  knee. 

"  'Twas  mist  and  rain,  and  storm  and  rain; 

No  screen,  no  fence  could  I  discover  ; 

And  then  the  wind  !  in  faith  it  was 

A  wind  full  ten  times  over. 

I  looked  around,  I  thought  I  saw 

A  jutting  crag, — and  off  I  ran, 

Head-foremost,  through  the  driving  rain, 

The  shelter  of  the  crag  to  gain  ; 

And  as  I  am  a  man, 

Instead  of  jutting  crag,  I  found 

A  woman  seated  on  the  ground. 

'  *  I  did  not  speak — I  saw  her  face  ; 
Her  face  ! — it  was  enough  for  me  ; 
I  turned  about  and  heard  her  cry, 
'  Oh,  misery  !  oh,  misery  !' 
And  there  she  sits,  until  the  moon 
Through  half  the  clear  blue  sky  will  go  ; 
And,  when  the  little  breezes  make 
The  waters  of  the  pond  to  shake, 


As  all  the  country  know, 
I  She  shudders,  and  you  hear  her  crv, 
'Oh,  misery!  oh,  misery!' 

,  "  But   what's   the    thorn?    and   what  the 
pond? 

And  what  the  hill  of  moss  to  her? 
i  And  what  the  creeping  breeze  that  comes 
j  The  little  pond  to  stir?" 

"I  cannot  tell  ;  but  some  will  say 
I  She  hanged  her  baby  on  the  tree  ; 
j  Some  say  she  drowned  it  in  the  pond, 
|  Which  is  a  little  step  beyond  : 
I  But  all  and  each  agree, 

The  little  babe  was  buried  there, 

Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair. 

"I've  heard  the  moss  is  spotted  red 

With  drops  of  that  poor  infant's  blood  : 

But  kill  a  new-born  infant  thus, 

I  do  not  think  she  could! 

Some  say,  if  to  the  pond  you  go, 

And  fix  on  it  a  steady  view, 

The  shadow  of  a  babe  you  trace, 

A  baby  and  a  baby's  face, 

And  that  it  looks  at  you  ; 

Whene'er  you  look  on  it,  'tis  plain 

The  baby  looks  at  you  again. 

"  And  some  had  sworn  an  oath  that  she 

Should  be  to  public  justice  brought ; 

And  for  the  little  infant's  bones 

With  spades  they  would  have  sought. 

It  might  not  be— the  hill  of  moss 

Before  their  eyes  began  to  stir ! 

And  for  full  fifty  yards  around, 

The  grass — it  shook  upon  the  ground  ! 

Yet  all  do  still  aver 

The  little  babe  is  buried  there, 

Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair. 

"  I  cannot  tell  how  this  may  be  ; 

But  plain  it  is,  the  thorn  is  bound 

With  heavy  tufts  of  moss,  that  strive 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground  ; 

And  this  I  know,  full  many  a  time, 

When  she  was  on  the  mountain  high, 

By  day  and  in  the  silent  night, 

When  all  the  stars  shone  clear  and  bri'ghi 

That  I  have  heard  her  cry, 

'Oh,  misery!  oh,  misery! 

Oh,  woe  is  me!  oh,  misery!'" 


HART-LEAP  WELL. 

Hart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring  of  water,  about 
five  miles  from  Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and 
near  the  side  ©f  the  road  that  leads  from  Rich- 


POEMS  OF  TTTE  IMAGINATION. 


107 


mond  to  Askrigg.  Its  name  is  derived  from  a 
remarkable  chase,  the  memory  of  which  is 
preserved  by  the  monuments  spoken  of  in  the 
second  part  of  the  following  poem,  which 
monuments  do  now  exist  as  1  have  there  de- 
scribed them. 

The  knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley 

moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud  ; 
I  le  turned  aside  towards  a  vassal's  door, 
And   "Bring    another    horse!"    he  cried 

aloud. 

"  Another  horse  I"— That  shout  the  vassal 

heard, 
And  saddled  his  best  steed,  a  comely  gray  ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  him  ;  he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious 

day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  courser  s  eyes ; 
The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy  pair ; 
Rut  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 
There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  hall, 
That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar  ; 
But  horse  and  man  are  vanished  one  and 

all; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 
Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain  : 
Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their 

kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain. 

The  knight  hallooed,  he  cheered,  and  chid 
them  on  [stern ; 

With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraidings 

But  breath  and  eyesight  fail :  and,  one  by 
one,  [fern. 

The  dogs  are  stretched  among  the  mountain 

Where  is  the  throng,   the  tumult  of  the 

race? 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  ? 
This   chase   it  looks  not    like   an  earthly 

chase; 
Sir  Walter  and  the  hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  hart  toils  along  the  mountain 

side  ; 
I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled  ; 
Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died  ; 
But   now  the    knight    beholds  him   lying 

dead. 


Dismounting   then,    he   leaned   against   a 

thorn ; 
I  le  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy : 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his 

horn, 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter 
leaned,  [feat : 

Stood  his   dumb  partner  in  this  glorious 

Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned  ; 

And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving 
sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  hart  was  lying  stretched  ; 
His  nostril  touched  a  spring  beneath  a  hill, 
And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had 
fetched  [still. 

The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 
(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 
Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south, 
and  west,  [spot. 

And  gazed  and   gazed  upon  that  darling 

And  climbing  up  the  hill — (it  was  at  least 
Nine   roods    of  sheer    ascent)   Sir  Walter 
found  [hunted  beast 

Three    several     hoof-  marks     which    the 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  "Til. 

now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  living  eyes : 
Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty 

brow 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 

"  I'll  build  a  pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 
And  a  small  arbour,  made  for  rural  joy  ; 
'Twill  be  the  traveller's  shed,  the  pilgrim's 

cot, 
A  place  of  love  for  damsels  that  are  coy. 

' '  A  cunning  artist  will  I  have  to  frame 
A  basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell ! 
And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same, 
From  this  day  forth  shall  call  it  Hart- 
leap  Well. 

"And,  gallant   stag!  to  make  thy  praises 

known, 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised ; 
Three  several  pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn 

stone,  [grazed. 

And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have 


108 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


"  And,  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are 

long, 
I  will  come  hither  with  my  paramour ; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's 

song 
We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower. 

"  Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains 
fail  [dure ; — ■ 

My   mansion    with    its   arbour    shall   en- 

The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of 
Swale,  [Ure!" 

And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  hart, 
stone-dead,  [spring. 

With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the 

Soon  did  the  knight  perform  what  he 
had  said, 

And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  moon  into  her  port  had 

steered, 
A  cup  of  stone  received  the  living  well ; 
Three   pillars   of   rude   stone   Sir  Walter 

reared, 
And  built  a  house  of  pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature 
tall  [twined, — 

With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  inter- 
Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were 

long, 
Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  paramour  ; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's 

song  [bower. 

Made     merriment    within    that    pleasant 

The  knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of 

time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 
But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 

Part  II. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade, 
To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts : 
''"is  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking  hearts. 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  saw  standing  in  a  dell 
Three  aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square  : 
And  one  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a  well. 


What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine : 
And  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 
I  saw  three  pillars  standing  in  a  line, 
The  last  stone  pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  with  neither  arms  nor 
head :  [green ; 

Half-wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
"  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath 
been." 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not 

here, 
And  nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
When  one,  who  was  in  shepherd's  garb  at- 
tired, 
Came  up  the  hollow : — him  did  I  accost, 
And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  in- 
quired. 

The  shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story 
told  [hearsed. 

Which    in   my    former  rhyme  I  have  re- 

"  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  times  of  old! 

But  something  ails  it  now;  the  spot  is 
cursed. 

"You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  aspen 
wcod —  [elms — 

Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,    others 

These  were  the  bower :  and  here  a  mansion 
stood, 

The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms  ! 

"The  arbour  does  its  own  condition  tell; 
You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,  and  the 
stream ;  [well 

But  as  to  the  great  lodge !  you  might  as 
Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

"  There's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor 

sheep, 
Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone; 
And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 
This  water   doth    send   forth   a   dolorous 

groan. 

' '  Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been 
done  [part, 

And  blood  cries  out  for  blood  :  but,  for  my 

I've  guessed,  when  I've  been  sitting  in  the 
sun, 

That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  hart. 


mmfFl  OF  TTTE  IMAGINATION. 


109 


"  What  thoughts  must  through  the  crea- 
ture's brain  have  past !  [steep, 

Even  from  the  topmost  stone,   upon  the 

Are  but  three  bounds— and  look,  sir,  at  this 
last— 

O  master !  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 

' '  For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate 

race; 

And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 
What  cause  the  hart  might   have  to  love 

this  place,  Lthe  well. 

And  come  and  make  his  death-bed  near 

"  Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 
Lulled  by  this  fountain  in  the  summer-tide  ; 
This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 
When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's 
side. 

"  In  April  here  beneath  the  scented  thorn 
He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols 

sing ;  [born 

And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was 
Not   half  a  furlong   from  that  self-same 

spring. 

"  Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant 

shade ; 
The  sun  on  drearier  hollow  never  shone  ; 
So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 
Till  trees,  and  stones,  and  fountain,  all  are 

gone." 

"Gray-headed  shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken 
well ;  Lmine : 

Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and 

This  beast  not  unobserved  by  nature  fell ; 

His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy 
divine. 

"The  being  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the 

groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  He 

loves. 

"The  pleasure-house  is  dust -.—behind, 
before,  [gloom ; 

This   is   no   common  waste,   no  common 

But  nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once 
more 

Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 
That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be 
known ; 


But,  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 
These  m  numents  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

"  One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 
Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what 

conceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of   the  meanest  thing  that 

feels." 


SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF 
BROUGHAM  CASTLE, 

UPON  THE  RESTORATION  OF  LORD  CLIF- 
FORD, THE  SHEPHERD,  TO  THE  ES- 
TATES AND  HONOURS  OF  HIS  ANCES- 
TORS.* 

High  in  the  breathless  hall   the  minstrel 
sate,  [song.— 

And  Emont's  murmur  mingled  with  the 
The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long  :— 


*  Henry  Lord  Clifford,  etc.,  etc.,  who  is  the 
subject  of  this  poem,  was  the  son   of  John  Lord 
Clifford,  who  was  slain  at  Towton   Field,  which 
John  Lord   Clifford,  as  is  known   to  the  reader 
of  English  history,   was   the  person  who  after 
the  battle  of  Wakefield  slew,  in  the  pursuit,  the 
young  Earl  of   Rutland,    son  of  the  Duke  of 
York,  who  had  fallen  in  the  battle,    "in  part  of 
revenge"   (say   the    authors  of  the   History   of 
Cumberland     and    Westmoreland)  ;    "for    the 
earl's   father   had    slain   his."      A   deed   which 
worthily  blemished  the  author  (says  Speed)  ;  but 
who,  as  he  adds,  "  dare  promise  anything  tem- 
perate of  himself  in  the  heat  of  martial  fury? 
chiefly  when  it  was  resolved  not  to  leave  any 
branch  of  the    York  line  standing;  for  so  one 
maketh  this  lord  to  speak."     This,  no  doubt,  1 
!  would  observe    by  the  by,  was  an  action  suffi- 
ciently in  the  vindictive  spirit  of  the  times,  and 
1  yet  not  altoge  ther  so  bad  as  represented  ;  "  for 
I  the  earl  was   no  child,  as  some  writers  would 
have  him,  but  able  to  bear  arms,  being  sixteen 
or   seventeen    years    of  age,  as  is  evident  from 
this  (say  the  Memoirs  of  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, who  was  laudably  anxious  to  wipe  away, 
as  far  as  could  be.  this  stigma  from  the  illustri- 
ous name  to  which  she  was  born),  that  he  was 
the  next  child   to   King    Edward   the    Fourth, 
which   his   mother   had   by    Richard   Duke  oi 
York,  and  that  king  was  then  eighteen   years  of 
age  ;    and  for  the  small  distance    betwixt  her 
children,  see  Austin  Vincent  in  his  book  of  No- 
bility,   page  622,   where  he  writes   of  them  all. 
It  may  further  be  observed,  that  Lord    Clifford, 
who  was  then  himself  only  twenty-n  e  years  of 
age.  had  been  a  leading  man  and  commander, 
two  or  three  years  together  in  the  army  of  Lan- 
caster, before  this  time  ;  and,  therefore,   would 


no 


POEMS  OF  THE  DIAGINAT10X. 


' '  From  town    to   town,    from   tower  to 
The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower,   [tower, 
Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past, 
The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last ; 
She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 
For  everlasting  blossoming  : 
Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white. 
In  love  and  sisterly  delight 
The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 
And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended. — 
Joy  !  joy  to  both  !  but  most  to  her 
Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster  ! 
Behold  her  how  she  smiles  to-day 
On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array  ! 
Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 
From  every  corner  of  the  hall ; 
But  chiefly  from  above  the  board 
Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  lord, 
A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored  ! 

"  They  came   with  banner,  spear,  and 
shield  ; 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-field. 
Not  long  the  avenger  was  withstood — 
Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood  :* 
St.  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  angels  crowned  the  right. 


be  less  likely  to  think  that  the  Earl  of  Rutland 
might  be  entitled  to  mercy  from  his  youth. — But 
independent  of  this  act,  at  the  best  a  cruel  and 
savage  one,  the  family  of  Clifford  had  done 
enough  to  draw  upon  them  the  vehement  hatred 
of  the  House  of  York  ;  so  that  after  the  battle 
of  Towton  there  was  no  hope  for  them  but  .in 
flight  and  concealment.  Henry,  the  subject  of 
the  poem,  was  deprived  of  his  estate  and  honours 
during  the  space  of  twenty-four  years  ;  all  which 
time  he  lived  as  a  shepherd  in  Yorkshire,  or  in 
Cumberland,  where  the  estate  of  his  father-in- 
law  (Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld)  lay.  He  was  re- 
stored to  his  estate  and  honours  in  the  first  year 
Of  Henry  the  Seventh.  It  is  recorded  that, 
when  called  to  parliament,  he  behaved  nobly 
and  wisely  ;  but  otherwise  came  seldom  to  Lon- 
don or  the  court  ;  and  rather  delighted  to  live 
in  the  country,  where  he  repaired  several  of  his 
castles,  which  had  gone  to  decay  during  the  late 
troubles."  Thus  far  is  chiefly  collected  from 
Nicholson  and  Burn  ;  and  I  can  add,  from  my 
own  knowledge,  that  there  is  a  tradition  current 
in  the  village  of  Threlkeld  and  its  neighbour- 
hoop,  his  principal  retreat,  that,  in  the  course  of 
his  shepherd-life  he  had  acquired  great  astro- 
nomical knowledge.  I  cannot  conclude  this 
note  without  adding  a  word  upon  the  subject  of 
those  numerous  and  noble  feudal  edifices,  spo- 
ken of  in  the  poem,  the  ruins  of  some  of  which 
are,  at  this  day,  so  great  an  ornament  to  that 
Interesting  country.  The  Cliffords  had  always 
Been  distinguished  for  an  honourable  pride  in 
these   castles  ;    and   we    have  seen    that  after 


Loud  voice  the  land  has  uttered  forth, 
We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north: 
Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 
Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming  ; 
Our  strong  abodes  and  castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

"  How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour — 
Though  she  is  but  a  lonely  tower  ! 
To  vacancy  and  silence  left  ; 
Of  all  her  guardian  sons  bereft  — 
Knight,  squire,  or  yeoman,  page  or  groom, 
We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm. 
How  glad  Pendragon — though  the  sleep 
Of  years  be  on  her  1 — She  shall  reap 
A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 
Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad  I  deem 
Beside  her  little  humble  stream  ; 
And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden's  course  to  guard  ; 
They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 
Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  tower :  — 
But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride 
For  one  fair  house  by  Emont's  side, 
This  day  distinguished  without  peer 
To  see  her  master  and  to  cheer 
Him,  and  his  lady  mother  dear  ! 

the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster  they  were  re- 
built ;  in  the  civil  wars  of  Charles  the  First  they 
were  again  laid  waste,  and  again  restored 
almost  to  their  former  magnificence  by  the  cele- 
brated Lady  Anne  Clifford,  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, etc.,  etc.  Not  more  than  twenty-five 
years  after  this  was  done,  when  the  estates  of 
Clifford  had  passed  into  the  Family  of  Tufton, 
three  of  these  castles,  namely,  Brough,  Broug- 
ham, and  Pendragon,  were  demolished,  and  the 
timber  and  other  materials  sold  by  Thomas 
Earl  of  Thanet.  We  will  hope  that  when  this 
order  was  issued,  the  Earl  had  not  consulted  the 
text  of  Isaiah,  58th  Chapter,  12th  Verse,  to 
which  the  inscription  placed  over  the  gate  of 
Pendragon  Castle,  by  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke (I  believe  his  grandmother)  at  the 
time  she  repaired  that  structure,  refers 
the  reader.  "And  they  that  shall  be  of 
thee  shall  build  tlie  old  waste  places  ;  thou  sha.lt 
raise  up  the  foundations  of  many  generations  ; 
and  thou  shall  be  called  the  repairer  of  the 
breach,  the  restorer  of  patlis  to  dwell  in."  The 
Earl  of  Thanet,  the  present  possessor  of  the  es- 
tates, with  a  due  respect  for  the  memory  of  his 
ancestors,  and  a  proper  sense  of  the  value  and 
beauty  of  these  remains  of  antiquity,  has  (I  am 
told)  given  orders  that  they  shall  be  preserved 
from  all  depredations. 

*  This  line  is  from  the  Battle  of  Bosworth 
Field,  by  Sir  John  Beaumont  (brother  to  the 
dramatist),  whose  poems  are  written  with  much 
spirit,  elegance,  and  harmony. 


POhJMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Ill 


"  Oh  !  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die  ! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  mother  and  the  child. 
Who  will  take  them  from  the  light  ? 
Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight — 
Yonder  is  a  house — but  where  ? 
No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 
To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks, 
To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks  ; 
She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 
Blissful  Mary,  mother  mild, 
Maid  and  mother undefiled, 
Save  a  mother  and  her  child  ! 

' '  Now  who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carrock's  side,  a  shepherd  boy  ? 
No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 
Can  this  be  he  who  hither  came 
In  secret,  like  a  smothered  flame? 
O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread  ! 
God  loves  the  child  ;  and  God  hath  willed 
That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled, 
The  lady's  words,  when  forced  away, 
The  last  she  to  her  babe  did  say, 
'  My  own,  my  own,  thy  fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be  ;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 
For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best  !' 

"  Alas  !  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 
The  boy  must  part  from  Mosedale's  groves, 
And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves, 
And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin's  lofty  springs  ; 
Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 
Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise ! 
Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days  ! 
Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 
For  this  young  bird  that  is  distrest  ; 
Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay, 
And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play, 
When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

"  A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear  ! 
I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 
A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 
Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  youth, 
And  thankful  through  a  weary  time, 
That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 


Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will, 
And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill  : 
His  garb  is  humble  ;  ne'er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien  ; 
Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 
Hath  he,  a  child  of  strength  and  state  i 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  solemn  glee, 
And  a  cheerful  company, 
That  learned  of  him  submissive  ways  ; 
And  comforted  his  private  days. 
To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 
Came,  and  rested  without  fear  ; 
The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 
Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty  ; 
And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 
Through  Bowscale-Tarn*  did  wait  on  him, 
The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 
In  their  immortality ; 
They  moved  about  in  open  sight, 
To  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 
He  knew  the  rocks  which  angels  haunt 
On  the  mountains  visitant  ; 
He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing  ; 
And  the  caves  where  faeries  sing 
He  hath  entered  ;  and  been  told 
By  voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 
Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 
Face  of  thing  that  is  to  be  ; 
And,  if  men  report  him  right, 
He  could  whisper  words  of  might. 
Now  another  day  is  come, 
Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom  : 
He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook, 
And  hath  buried  deep  his  book  ; 
Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 
On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls  ;  t — 
'  Quell  the  Scot,'  exclaims  the  lance- 
Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 
Is  the  longing  of  the  shield — 
Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  field  ; 
Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 
Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 
Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 
When  our  shepherd,  in  his  power, 


*  It  is  imagined  by  the  people  of  the  country 
that  there  are  two  immortal  fish,  inhabitants  of 
this  Tarn,  which  lies  in  the  mountains  not  far 
from  Threlkeld. — Blencathara,  mentioned  before 
is  the  old  and  proper  name  of  the  mountain 
vulgarly  called  Saddle-back. 

t  The  martial  character  of  the  Cliffords  is 
well  known  to  the  readers  of  English  history  ; 
but  it  may  not  be  improper  here  to  say,  by  way 
of  comment  on  these  lines,  and  what  follows, 
that,  besides  several  others  who  perished  in  the 
same  manner,  the  four  immediate  progenitors  of 
the  person  in  whose  hearing  this  is  supposed  to 
be  spoken,  all  died  in  the  field. 


112 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored, 

Like  a  re-appearing  star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  !" 

Alas  !  the  fervent  harper  did  not  know 
That  for  a  tranquil  soul  the  lay  was  framed, 
Who,  long  compelled  in  humble  walks  to  go, 
Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and 
tamer) 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men 
lie  ;  [rills, 

His   daily   teachers   had  been  woods  and 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  race, 
Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts   were 

dead  : 
Nor  did  he  change  ;  but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the   vales,    and   every   cottage 
hearth  ;  [and  more  : 

The  shepherd   lord   was   honoured   more 
And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 
*'  The  good  Lord  Clifford  "  was  the  name 
he  bore. 


THE  ECHO. 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  echo, 
Solitary,  clear,  profound, 
Answering  to  the  shouting  cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound  ! 

Unsolicited  reply 
To  a  babbling  wanderer  sent ; 
Like  her  ordinary  cry, 
Like— but  oh,  how  different ! 

Hears  not  also  mortal  life  ? 
Hear  not  we,  unthinking  creatures  ! 
Slaves  of  folly,  love,  and  strife, 
Voices  of  two  different  natures  ? 

Have  not  we  too  ;— yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence  ; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognised  intelligence  ? 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Often  catches  from  afar  ; — 
Giddy  mortals  !  hold  them  dear  ; 
For  of  God,— of  God  they  are. 


TO   A    SKYLARK.  __ 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky \ 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  carei 

abound  ?  [eye 

Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest   which  thou  canst  drop  into  at 

will, 
Those    quivering    wings    composed,    that 

music  still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 
Mount,  daring  warbler !  that  love-prompted 

strain, 
(Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond) 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  mightst  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring,     [sing 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine  ;  [flood 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a 
Of  harmony,  with  rapture  more  divine  ; 
Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam  ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven  and 
home ! 


It  is  no  spirit  who  from  heaven  hath  flown, 

And  is  descending  on  his  embassy  ; 

Nor  traveller  gone  from  earth  the  heavens 

to  espy  ! 
'Tis  Hesperus — there  he  stands  with  glit- 
tering crown, 
First  admonition  that  the  sun  is  down  ! 
For  yet  it  is  broad  daylight  !  clouds  pass 

by, 
A  few  are  near  him  still — and  now  the  skv, 
He  hath  it  to  himself— 'tis  all  his  own. 
O    most    ambitious    star !     thy    presence 

brought 
A  startling  recollection  to  my  mind 
Of  the  distinguished  few  among  mankind, 
Who  dare   to   step  beyond   their   natural 

race, 
•  As  thou  seem'st  now   to  do  :   nor  was  a 
I  thought 

I  Denied— that  even  I  might  one  day  trace 
Some  ground  not  mine  ;  and,  strong  het 

strength  above, 
My  soul,  an  apparition  in  the  place, 
Tread  there,  with  steps  that  no  one  shall. 

reprove  ! 


rnmrs  of  the  imagination. 


113 


FRENCH   REVOLUTION, 

AS   IT  APPEARED   TO   ENTHUSIASTS   AT 

ITS   COMMENCEMENT.*     REPRINTED 

FROM    "THE   FRIEND.' 

Oh  !  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  1 
For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars,  which  then 

stood 
Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in  love ! 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  ! — Oh  ! 

times, 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 
Of  custom,  law,  and  statute,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a  country  in  romance  ! 
When  reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her 

rights, 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 
A  prime  enchantress — to  assist  the  work, 
Which  then  was  going  forward  in  hername ! 
Not   favoured  spots  alone,  but  the  whole 

earth,  [sets 

The  beauty  wore  of  promise — that  which 
(To  take  an  image  which  was  felt  no  doubt 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself) 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown. 
What  temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 
To  happiness  unthought  of?  The  inert 
Were  roused,  and  lively  natures  rapt  away  ! 
They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon 

dreams, 
The  playfellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All     powers    of    swiftness,   subtil ty,    and 

strength  [stirred 

Their  ministers, — who  in  lordly  wise  had 
Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense, 
And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  there 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it ; — the)',  too,  who  of  gentle  mood 
Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,   and  to 

these 
Had  fitted   their  own  thoughts,  schemers 

more  mild, 
And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves  ;  — 
Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek  and 

lofty 
Did  both  find  helpers  to  their  heart's  desire, 
And  stuff  at  hand,   plastic  as  they  could 

wish, — 
Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill, 
Not  in  Utopia, — subterraneous  fields, — 


*  This,  and  the  extract  ("  The  Influence  of  Natu- 
ral Objects"  ,  page  28,  and  the  first  piece  of  this 
class,  are  from  *he  unpublished  poem  of  which 
some  account  is  given  in  the  preface  to  "  The  Ex- 
cursion." 


Or  some  secreted  island,    Heaven  knows 

where  ! 
But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 
Of  all  of  us, — the  place  where  in  the  end 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all ! 


THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE. 

WiTHVN  the  mind  strong  fancies  work, 

A  deep  delight  the  bosom  thrills, 

Oft  as  I  pass  along  the  fork 

Of  these  fraternal  hills  : 

Where,  save  the  rugged  road,  we  find 

No  appanage  of  human  kind  ; 

Nor  hint  of  man  ;  if  stone  or  rock 

Seem  not  his  handy-work  to  mock 

By  something  cognizably  shaped  ; 

Mockery — or  model  roughly  hewn, 

And  left  as  if  by  earthquake  strewn, 

Or  from  the  flood  escaped  : — 

Altars  for  Druid  service  fit  ; 

(But  where  no  fire  was  ever  lit, 

Unless  the  glow-worm  to  the  skies 

Thence  offer  nightly  sacrifice  ; 

Wrrinkled  Egyptian  monument  ; 

Green  moss-grown  tower  ;  or  hoary  tent ; 

Tents  of  a  camp  that  never  shall  be  raised  ; 

On  which  four  thousand  years  have  gazed  ! 

Ye  plough-shares  sparkling  on  the  slopes  ! 

Ye  snow-white  lambs  that  trip 

Imprisoned  'mid  the  formal  props 

Of  restless  ownership  ! 

Ye  trees,  that  may  to-m'.- .  1 

To  feed  the  insatiate  prodi 

Lawns,  houses,  chattels.  .; 

All  that  the  fertile  valley  si 

Wages  of  folly — baits  of  c 

Of  life's  uneasy  game  th? : 

Playthings  that  keep  th> 

Of  drowsy,  dotard  time  ;-i 

O  care  !  O  guilt  ! — O  \ 

Here,  'mid  his  own  un\ 

A  genius  dwells,  that  c; 

At  once  all  memory  of 

Most  potent  when  mist: 

Mists  that  distort  and  r 

While  the  coarse  rush' 

Sigh  forth  their  ancient  meta 

List  to  those  shriller  notei 
Perchance  was  on  the  bl& 
When,  through  this  hei?: 
Rome's  earliest  legion  pas 
They  saw,  ad venturousl  ■ 
And  older  eyes  than  th 


114 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


This  block — and  yon,    whose  church-like 

frame 
Gives  to  the  savage  pass  its  name. 
Aspiring  road  !  that  lov'st  to  hide 
Thy  daring  in  a  vapoury  bourn, 
Not  seldom  may  the  hour  return 
When  thou  shalt  be  my  guide  ; 
And  I  (as  often  we  find  cause, 
When  life  is  at  a  weary  pause,. 
And  we  have  panted  up  the  hill 
Of  duty  with  reluctant  will) 
Be  thankful,  even  though  tired  and  faint, 
For  the  rich  bounties  of  constraint  ; 
Whence  oft  invigorating  transports  flow 
That  choice  lacked  courage  to  bestow. 

My  soul  was  grateful  for  delight 

That  wore  a  threatening  brow  ; 

A  veil  is  lifted — can  she  slight 

The  scene  that  opens  now  ! 

Though  habitation  none  appear, 

The  greenness  tells,  man  must  be  there  ; 

The  shelter — that  the  perspective 

Is  of  the  clime  in  which  we  live  ; 

Where  toil  pursues  his  daily  round  ; 

Where  pity  sheds  sweet  tears,  and  love, 

In  woodbine  bower  or  birchen  grove, 

Inflicts  his  tender  wound. 

Who  comes  not  hither  ne'er  shall  know 

How  beautiful  the  world  below  ; 

Nor  can  he  guess  how  lightly  leaps 

The  brook  adown  the  rocky  steeps. 

Farewell,  thou  desolate  domain  ! 

Hope,  pointing  to- the  cultured  plain, 

Carols  like  a  shepherd-boy  ; 

And  who  is  she  ? — Can  that  be  joy  ! 

Who,  with  a  sunbeam  for  her  guide, 

Smoothly  skims  the  meadows  wide  ; 

While  faith,  from  yonder  opening  clou 

To  hill  and  vale  proclaims  akmd, 

"Whate'er    tfee    weak    may    dread,    the 

wicked  dare, 
Thy  lot,  O  man,. is  good,  thy  portion  fair!" 


EVENING  ODE, 

POSED    UPON   AN   EVENING   OF  EX- 
RDINARY  SPLENDOUR  AND  BEAUTY. 

-D  this  effulgence  disappeared 
.  ith  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent, 
Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 
Of  blank  astonishment  ; 
But  'tis  endued  with  power  to  stay, 
And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 
That  frail  mortality  may  see — 
What  is  ? — ah  no,  but  what  can  be  ! 


Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 
With  modulated  echoes  rang, 
While  choirs  of  fervent  angels  sang 
Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ;  [height, 

Or,  ranged  like  stars  along  some  sovereign 
Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below. 
Strains  suitable  to  both. — Such  holy  rite, 
Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 
From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 
Sublimer  transport,  purer  love, 
Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle — the  gleam-— 
The  shadow — and  the  peace  supreme  ! 

No  sound  is  uttered, — but  a  deep 

And  solemn  harmony  pervades 

The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh, 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 

Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 

Whate'er  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues 

In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side  ; 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried  ; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpurealeve  ! 

But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine, 

Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 

That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 

From  worlds  not  quickened  by  tne  sun 

A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ; 

An  intermingling  of  heaven'spomp  is  spread 

On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread  ! 

And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 

Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale, 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air, 

To  stop— no  record  hath  told  where  ! 

And  tempting  fancy  to  ascend, 

And  with  immortal  spirits  blend  ! 

Wings  at  my  shoulder  seem  to  play  ; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze     [raise 

On   those  bright   steps    that   heavenward 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,   ye  drooping  old  men,   look 

abroad, 
And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound ! 
And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 
Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy 
Ye  genii !  to  his  covert  speed  ;        [ground, 
And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 
As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 
Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour  ! 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  urn 
Were  wont  to  stream  before  my  eye, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


lib 


Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ? 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude; 

For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  'twas  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power  !  whom  peace  and  calmness 

serve 
No  less  than  nature's  threatening  voice, 
If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 
From  THEE  it'  I  would  swerve, 
Oh,  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 
Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 
Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 
Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored  ! 
My  soul,  though  yet  c<    fined  to  earth, 
Rejoices  in  a  second  birth  ; 
Tis  past,  the  visionary  splendour  fades; 
And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 

Xolc. — The  multiplication  of  mountain  ridges, 
described  at  the  commencement  of  the  third 
.stanza  of  this  ode,  as  a  kind  of  Jacob's  ladder, 
leading  to  Heaven,  is  produced  either  by  watery 
vapours,  or  sunny  haze  ; — in  the  present  in- 
stance, by  the  latter  cause.  Allusions  to  the 
ode  entitled  "  Intimations  of  Immortality,"  per- 
vade the  last  stanza  of  the  foregoing  poem. 


LINES, 


COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTEKN 

ABBEY,    ON    REVISITING  THE   BANKS 

OK   THE    WYE    DURING   A   TOUR. 

JULY    I3,    1798. 

FlVE  years  have  past  ;  five  summers,  with 

the  length 
Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.* — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;    and 

connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These    plots     of     cottage-ground,     these 

orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  "this  season,    with  their   unripe 

fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  them- 
selves 


*  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few 
miles  above  Tintern. 


Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  1 

see  [lines 

These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  ;    these  pastoral 

farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  wood  , 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  lire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to 

me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings,  too, 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  [mood, 

Is    lightened  : — that    serene    and    blessed 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul  :- 
While  with  a*n  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft — 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight  ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart  - 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye  !     Thou  wanderer  through 

the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished 
thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 


116 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Of  present    pleasure,    but  with  pleasing 

thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,    no  doubt,  from  what  I 

was  when  first 


And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recog- 
nise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

1'he  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the 
nurse,  [soul 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and 


I  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe    Of  all  my  moral  being. 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying    from   something   that   he   dreads, 

than  one  [then 

Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.  For  nature 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days,* 
And    their    glad    animal    movements    all 

gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 

What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract    Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock,      May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy    My  dear,   dear  sister  !  and  this   prayer    I 

wood,  [to  me  J  make, 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,   were  then    Knowing  that  nature  never  did  betray 


Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,   should  I   the 

more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou,  my  dearest  friend. 
My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in   thy  voice  1 

catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 


The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege,  •, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to 
lead 


An  appetite  :  a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is    From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 

past,  I  The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more,        With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this       I  With    lofty    thoughts,    that    neither    evil 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts  tongues,  [men, 

Have   followed,    for  such   loss,    I    would    Rash  judgments,   nor  the  sneers  of  selfish 

believe,  |  Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned  |  The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour  [  Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  often-  '  Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity,  [times  |  Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,    though  of  ample    Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  : 


power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And"  I  have  felt* 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy- 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused",  >\ 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  sun  sJ 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air| 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man":  I 
\  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All    thinking    things 

thought, 


And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  oh  ! 

then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
all    objects    of   all  i  Should  be  thy  portion,   with  what  healing 
[am  I  still  I  thoughts 


And  rolls  through  all   things.     Therefore  |  Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 


A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
F  rom    this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty 

world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create,* 

This  line  has  a  close  resemblance  to  an  ad- 
hirable  line  of  Younc,  the  exact  expression  of 
•vhich  I  cannot  recollect. 


And   these   my   exhortations !     Nor,    per- 
chance— 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes 

these  gleams 
Of  past  existence— wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together  ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came, 


P0E31S  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


117 


Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 

\\  ith   warmer  love— oh  !   with  far  deeper 

zeal 
("if  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Ui    absence,    these  steep  woods  anc'l  lofty 

cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were 

to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy 

sake  ! 


PETER  BELL,  A  TALE. 
"  What's  in  a  name  t"  .    .    . 
"  Brutus   will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar  !" 


To  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  P.  L. 

ETC.    ETC. 

My  dear  Friend, — The  taje  of  Peter 
Bell,  which  I  now  introduce  to  your  notice, 
and  to  that  of  the  public,  has,  in  its  manu- 
script state,  nearly  survived  its  minority ;  - 
for  it  first  saw  the  light  in  the  summer  of 
1798.  During  this  long  interval,  pains 
have  been  taken  at  different  times  to  make 
the  production  less  unworthy  of  a  favour- 
able reception;  or,  rather,  to  fit  it  for  filling 
permanently  a  station,  however  humble,  in 
the  literature  of  my  country.  This  has, 
indeed,  been  the  aim  of  all  my  endeavours 
in  poetry,  which,  you  know,  have  been 
sufficiently  laborious  to  prove  that  I  deem 
the  art  not  lightly  to  be  approached  ;  and 
that  the  attainment  of  excellence  in  it  may 
laudably  be  made  the  principal  object  of 
intellectual  pursuit  by  any  man,  who,  with 
reasonable  consideration  of  circumstances, 
has  faith  in  his  own  impulses. 

The  poem  of  Peter  Bell,  as  the  prologue 
will  show,  was  composed  under  a  belief 
that  the  imagination  not  only  does  not 
require  for  its  exercise  the  intervention  of 
supernatural  agency,  but  that,  though  such 
agency  be  excluded,  the  faculty  may 
be  called  forth  as  imperiously,  and  for 
kindred  results  of  pleasure,  by  incidents, 
within  the  compass  of  poetic  proba- 
bility, in  the  humblest  departments 
of  daily  life.  Since  that  prologue  was 
written,  you  have  exhibited  most  splendid 
effects  of  judicious  daring,  in  the  opposite 
and  usual  course.  Let  this  acknowledg- 
ment make  my  peace  with  the  lovers  of  the 
supernatural  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  it  will 


be  admitted,  that  to  you,  as  a  master  in 
thai  province  of  the  art,  the  following  tale, 
whether  from  contrast  or  congruity,  i  not 
an unappropriate offering.  Ace. 'pi  it,  then, 
as  a  public  testimony  of  affectionate  admira 
tion  from  one  with  whose  name  yours  ha' 
been  often  coupled  (to  use  your  own  words) 
for  evil  and  for  good  ;  and  believe  me  to 
be,  with  earnest  wishes  that  life  and  health 
may  be  granted  you  to  complete  the  many 
important  work-in  which  you  are  engaged, 
and  with  high  respect,  most  faithfully  yours, 

William  Wordsworth. 

Rydal  Mount,  April  7,  1S19. 


Prologue. 

There's  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
There's  something  in  a  huge  balloon; 
But  through  the  clouds  I'll  never  float 
Until  I  have  a  little  boat, 
Whose  shape  is  like  the  crescent-moon. 

And  now  I  have  a  little  boat, 
In  shape  a  very  crescent-moon  : — 
I  Fast  through  the  clouds  my  boat  can  sail; 
But  if  perchance  your  faith  should  fail, 
Look  up — and  you  shall  see  me  soon  ! 

The   woods,    my  friends,  are    round   you 

roaring, 
!  Rocking  and  roaring  like  a  sea; 
;  The  noise  of  danger  fills  your  ears, 

And  ye  have  all  a  thousand  fears 

Both  for  my  little  boat  and  me  ! 

j  Meanwhile  untroubled  I  admire 
,  The  pointed  horns  of  my  canoe  : 

And,  did  not  pity  touch  my  breast, 

To  see  how  ye  are  all  distrest, 
I  Till  my  ribs  ached,  I'd  laugh  at  you  ! 

Away  we  go,  my  boat  and  I — 
Frail  man  ne'er  sate  in  such  another; 
Whether  among  the  winds  we  strive, 
Or  deep  into  the  clouds  we  dive, 
Each  is  contented  with  the  other. 

Away  we  go — and  what  care  we 
For  treasons,  tumults,  and  for  wars  ? 
We  are  as  calm  in  our  delight 
As  is  the  crescent-moon  so  bright 
Among  the  scattered  stars. 

Up  goes  my  boat  among  the  stars 
Through  many  a  breathless  field  of  light, 
Through  many  a  long  blue  field  of  ether, 


118 


rOEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Leaving  ten  thousand  stars  beneath  her. 
Up  goes  my  little  boat  so  bright ! 

The  Crab — the  Scorpion — and  the  Bull — 
We  pry  among  them  all — have  shot 
High  o'er  the  red-haired  race  of  Mars, 
Covered  from  top  to  toe  with  scars  ; 
Such  company  I  like  it  not ! 

The  towns  in  Saturn  are  decayed, 
And  melancholy  spectres  throng  them; 
The  Pleiads,  that  appear  to  kiss 
Each  other  in  the  vast  abyss, 
Withjoy  I  sail  among  them  ! 

Swift  Mercury  resounds  with  mirth, 
Great  Jove  is  full  of  stately  bowers; 
But  these,  and  all  that  they  contain, 
What  are  they  to  that  tiny  grain, 
That  little  earth  of  ours  ? 

Then  back  to  earth,  the  dear  green  earth  ; 
Whole  ages  if  I  here  should  roam, 
The  world  for  my  remarks  and  me 
Would  not  a  whit  the  better  be; 
I've  left  my  heart  at  home. 

And  there  it  is,  the  matchless  earth  ! 
There  spreads  the  famed  Pacific  Ocean  ! 
Old  Andes  thrusts  yon  craggy  spear 
Through   the   gray  clouds — the  Alps   are 

here, 
Like  waters  in  commotion  ! 

Yon  tawny  slip  is  Libya's  sands — 
That  silver  thread  the  river  Dnieper — 
And  look,  where  clothed  in  brightest  green 
Is  a  sweet  isle,  of  isles  the  queen; 
Ye  fairies,  from  all  evil  keep  her  ! 

And  see  the  town  where  I  was  born  ! 
Around  those  happy  fields  we  span 
In  boyish  gambols — I  was  lost 
Where  I  have  been,  but  on  this  coast 
I  feel  I  am  a  man. 

Never  did  fifty  things  at  once 
Appear  so  lovely,  never,  never, — 
How  tunefully  the  forests  ring  ? 
To  hear  the  earth's  soft  murmuring 
Thus  could  I  hang  for  ever  ! 

"  Shame  on  you  !"  cried  my  little  boat, 

"  Was  ever  such  a  homesick  loon, 

Within  a  living  boat  to  sit, 

And  make  no  better  use  of  it, — 

A  boat  twin-sister  r>{  the  crescent  moon  ! 


"  Ne'er  in  the  breast  of  full-grown  poet 
Fluttered  so  faint  a  heart  before  ; — 
Was  it  the  music  of  the  spheres 
That  overpowered  your  mortal  ears  ! 
Such  am  shall  trouble  them  no  more. 

"  These  nether  precincts  do  not  lack 
Charms  of  their  own ; — then  come  with  me  - 
I  want  a  comrade,  and  for  you 
There's  nothing  that  I  would  not  do  ; 
Nought  is  there  that  you  shall  not  see. 

"  Haste!  and  above  Siberian  snows 
We'll  sport  amid  the  boreal  morning, 
Will  mingle  with  her  lustres,  gliding 
Among  the  stars,  the  stars  now  hiding, 
And  now  the  stars  adorning. 

"  I  know  the  secrets  of  a  land 
Where  human  foot  did  never  stray  ; 
Fair  is  that  land  as  evening  skies, 
And  cool, — though  in  the  depth  it  lies 
Of  burning  Africa. 

"  Or  we'll  into  the  realms  of  faery, 
Among  the  lovely  shades  of  things, 
The  shadowy  forms  of  mountains  bare, 
And  streams,  and  bowers,  and  ladies  fair, 
The  shades  of  palaces  and  kings  ! 

"  Or,  if  you  thirst  with  hardy  zeal 
Less  quiet  regions  to  explore, 
Prompt  voyage  shall  to  you  reveal 
How  heaven  and  earth  are  taught  to  feel 
The  might  of  magic  lore!" 

"  My  little  vagrant  form  of  light, 

My  gay  and  beautiful  canoe, 

Well  have  you  played  your  friendly  part  ; 

As  kindly  take  what  from  my  heart 

Experience  forces — then  adieu  ! 

' '  Temptation  lurks  among  your  words  ; 
But,  while  these  pleasures  you're  pursuing 
Without  impediment  or  let, 
My  radiant  pinnace,  you  forget 
What  on  the  earth  is  doing. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  all  mankind 
Did  listen  with  a  faith  sincere 
To  tuneful  tongues  in  mystery  versed  ; 
Then  poets  fearlessly  rehearsed 
The  wonders  of  a  wild  career. 

"  Go — (but  the  world's  a  sleepy  world, 
And  'tis,  I  fear,  an  age  too  late  ;) 
Take  with  you  some  ambitious  youth  ; 
For,  restless  wanderer !   I,  in  truth, 
Am  all  unfit  to  be  vour  mate. 


POEMS  OF  Till'  IMAGINATION. 


119 


"  Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold, 
The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers  ; 
The  common  growth  of  mother  earth 
Suffices  me— her  tears,  her  mirth, 
Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

"The  dragon's  wing,  the  magic  ring, 

I  shall  not  "covet  for  my  dower, 

If  I  along  that  lowly  way 

With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray, 

And  with  a  soul  of  power. 

"  These  given,  what  more  need  I  desire 
To  stir — to  soothe — or  elevate  r 
What  nobler  marvels  than  the  mind 

May  in  life's  daily  prospect  find, 
May  find  or  there  create? 

"  A  potent  wand  doth  sorrow  wield  ; 
What  spell  so  strong  as  guilty  fear  ! 
Repentance  is  a  tender  sprite  ;' 
If  aught  on  earth  have  heavenly  might, 
"lis  fudged  within  her  silent  tear. 

"  But  grant  my  wishes, — let  us  now 
Descend  from  this  ethereal  height ; 
Then  take  thy  way,  adventurous  skiff, 
More  daring  far  than  Hippogriff, 
And  be  thy  own  delight  1 

"  To  the  stone-table  in  my  garden, 
Loved  haunt  of  many  a  summer  hour, 
The  squire  is  come  ; — his  daughter  Bess 
Beside  him  in  the  cool  recess 
Sits  blooming. like  a  flower. 

"With  these  are  many  more  convened  ; 
They  know  not  I  have  been  so  far — 
I  see  them  there,  in  number  nine, 
Beneath  the  spreading  Weymouth  pine — 
I  see  them — there  they  are  1 

"  There  sits  the  vicar  and  his  dame  ; 
And  there  my  good  friend,  Stephen  Otter 
And,  ere  the  light  of  evening  fail, 
To  them  I  must  relate  the  tale 
Of  Peter  Bell  the  potter." 

Off  flew  my  sparkling  boat  in  scorn, 
Spurning  her  freight  with  indignation  ? 
And  1,  as  well  as  I  was  able, 
On  two  poor  legs,  toward  my  stone-table 
Limped  on  with  some  vexation. 

"Oh,  here  he  is  !  "  cried  little  Bess — 
She  saw  me  at  the  garden  door  ; 
"We've  waited  anxiously  and  long," 
They  cried,  and  all  around  me  throng, 
Full  nine  of  tl    m  01  more! 


"  Reproach  me  not — your  fears  be  still — 
Be  thankful  we  again  have  met  ; — 
Resume,  my  friends  !  within  the  shade 
Your  seats,  and  quickly  shall  be  paid 
The  well-remembered  debt." 

I  spake  with  faltering  voice,  like  one 
Not  wholly  rescued  from  the  pale 
Of  a  wild  dream,  or  worse  illusion  ; 
But,  straight  to  cover  my  confusion, 
Began  the  promised  tale. 

Pakt  I. 

All  by  the  moonlight  river  side 
Groaned  the  poor  beast — alas  !  in  vain  ; 
The  staff  was  raised  to  loftier  height, 
And  the  blows  fell  with  heavier  weight 
As  Peter  struck — and  struck  again. 

Like  winds  that  lash  the  waves,  or  smite 
The  woods,  autumnal  foliage  thinning — 
"Hold!"  said  the  squire,    "I    pray  you, 

hold  ! 
Who  Peter  was  let  that  be  told, 
And  start  from  the  beginning." 

"  A  potter,*  sir,  he  was  by  trade," 

Said  I,  becoming  quite  collected  ; 
"  And  wheresoever  he  appeared, 
Full  twenty  times  was  Peter  feared 
For  once  that  Peter  was  respected. 

He,  two-and-thirty  years  or  more, 
Had  been  a  wild  and  woodland  rover  ; 
Had  heard  the  Atlantic  surges  roar 
On  farthest  Cornwall's  rocky  shore, 
And  trod  the  cliffs  of  Dover. 

And  he  had  seen  Caernarvon's  towers, 
And  well  he  knew  the  spire  of  Sarum  ; 
And  he  had  been  where  Lincoln  bell 
Flings  o'er  the  fen  its  ponderous  knell, 
Its  far  renowned  alarum  ! 

At  Doncaster,  at  York,  and  Leeds 
And  merry  Carlisle  had  he  been  ; 
And  all  along  the  Lowlands  fair, 
All  through  the  bonny  shire  of  Ayr— 
And  far  as  Aberdeen. 

And  he  had  been  at  Inverness  ; 

And  Peter,  by  the  mountain  rills, 

Had  danced  his  round  with  Highland  lasses 

And  he  had  lain  beside  his  asses 

On  lofty  Cheviot  Hills  : 


*  In  the  dialect  of   the  north,  a  hawker  m 
earthenware  is  thus  designated. 


120 


rOEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


And  he  haa   trudged   through   Yorkshire 

dales, 
Among  the  rocks  and  winding  scars  ; 
Where  deep  and  low  the  hamlets  lie 
Beneath  their  little  patch  of  sky 
And  little  lot  of  stars  : 

And  all  along  the  indented  coast, 
Bespattered  with  the  salt-sea  foam  ; 
Where'er  a  knot  of  houses  lay- 
On  headland,  or  in  hollow  bay  ; — 
Sure  never  man  like  him  did  roam  ! 

As  well  might  Peter,  in  the  Fleet, 

Have  been  fast  bound,  a  begging  debtor  ; — 

He  travelled  here,  he  travelled  there  ; — 

But  not  the  value  of  a  hair 

Was  heart  or  head  the  better. 

He  roved  among  the  vales  and  strerms, 
1  n  the  green  wood  and  hollow  dell  ; 
They  were  his  dwellings  night  and  day, — 
But  nature  ne'er  could  find  the  way 
Into  the  heart  of  Peter  Bell. 

In  vain,  through  every  changeful  year, 
Did  nature  lead  him  as  before  ; 
A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

Small  change  it  made  in  Peter's  heart 
To  see  his  gentle  panniered  train 
With  more  than  vernal  pleasure  feeding, 
Where'er  the  tender  grass  was  leading 
Its  earliest  green  along  the  lane. 

In  vain,  through  water,  earth,  and  air 
The  soul  of  happy  sound  was  spread, 
When  Peter,  on  some  April  morn, 
Beneath  the  broom  or  budding  thorn, 
Made  the  warm  earth  his  lazy  bed. 

At  noon,  when  by  the  forest's  edge, 
He  lay  beneath  the  branches  high, 
The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart, — he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky  ! 

On  a  fair  prospect  some  have  looked 
And  felt,  as  I  have  heard  them  say, 
As  if  the  moving  time  had  been 
A  thing  as  steadfast  as  the  scene 
On  which  they  gazed  themselves  away. 

Within  the  breast  of  Peter  Bell 
These  silent  raptures  found  no  place  ; 
He  was  a  carl  as  wild  and  rude 


As  ever  hue-and-cry  pursued, 
As  ever  ran  a  felon's  race. 

Of  all  that  lead  a  lawless  life, 
Of  all  that  love  their  lawless  lives, 
In  city  or  in  village  small, 
He  was  the  wildest  far  of  all ; 
He  had  a  dozen  wedded  wives. 

Nay,    start  not !  —  wedded  wives  —  and 

twelve  ! 
But  how  one  wife  could  e'er  come  near 
In  simple  truth  I  cannot  tell  ;  [him, 

For  be  it  said  of  Peter  Bell, 
To  see  him  was  to  fear  him. 

"Though  nature  could  not  teach  his  heart 
By  lovely  forms  and  silent  weather, 
And   tender  sounds,  yet  you  might  see 
At  once,  that  Peter  Bell  and  she 
Had  often  been  together. 

A  savage  wildness  round  him  hung 
As  of  a  dweller  out  of  dcors  ; 
In  his  whole  figure  and  his  mien 
A  savage  character  was  seen, 
Of  mountains  and  of  dreary  moors. 

To  all  the  unshaped  half-human  thoughts 

Which  solitary  nature  feeds 

'Mid  summer  storms  or  winter's  ice, 

Had  Peter  joined  whatever  vice 

The  cruel  city  breeds. 

His  face  was  keen  as  is  the  wind 
That  cuts  along  the  hawthorn  fence  ; 
Of  courage  you  saw  little  there, 
But,  in  its  stead,  a  medley  air 
Of  cunning  and  of  impudence. 

He  had  a  dark  and  sidelong  walk, 
And  long  and  slouching  was  his  gait  ; 
Beneath  his  looks  so  bare  and  bold, 
You  might  perceive,  his  spirit  cold 
Was  playing  with  some  inward  bait 

His  forehead  wrinkled  was  and  furred  ; 
A  work,  one  half  of  which  was  done 
By  thinking  of  his  whens  and  hows  ; 
And  half,  by  knitting  of  his  brows 
Beneath  the  glaring  sun. 

'  There  was  a  hardness  in  his  cheek, 
|  There  was  a  hardness  in  his  eye, 

As  if  the  man  had  fixed  his  face, 
i  In  many  a  solitary  place, 

Against  the  wind  and  open  sky  1 


IOFMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION, 


121 


One  Night,  (and  now,  my  little  Bess  ! 
We've  reached  at  last  the  promised  tale  ;) 
One  beautiful  November  night, 
When  the  full  moon  was  shining  bright 
Upon  the  rapid  river  Swale, 

Along  the  river's  winding  banks 
Feter  was  travelling  all  alone  ; — 
Whether  to  buy  or  sell,  or  led 
By  pleasure  running  in  his  head, 
To  me  was  never  known. 

He  trudged  along  through  copse  and  brake, 
He  trudged  along  o'er  hill  and  dale  ; 
Nor  for  the  moon  cared  he  a  tittle, 
And  for  the  stars  he  cared  as  little, 
And  for  the  murmuring  river  Swale. 

But,  chancing  to  espy  a  path 
That  promised  to  cut  short  the  way, 
As  many  a  wiser  man  hath  done, 
He  left  a  trusty  guide  for  one 
That  might  his  steps  betray. 

To  a  thick  wood  he  soon  is  brought 
Where  cheerfully  his  course  he  weaves, 
And  whistling  loud  may  yet  be  heard, 
Though  often  buried,  like  a  bird 
Darkling  among  the  boughs  and  leaves. 

But  quickly  Peter's  mood  is  changed, 
And  on  he  drives  with  cheeks  that  burn 
In  downright  fury  and  in  wrath — 
There's  little  sign  the  treacherous  path 
Will  to  the  road  return  ! 

The  path  grows  dim,  and  dimmer  still  ; 
Now  up — now  down — the  rover  wends 
With  all  the  sail  that  he  can  carry, 
Till  brought  to  a  deserted  quarry  ; 
And  there  the  pathway  ends. 

He  paused — for  shadows  of  strange  shape, 
Massy  and  black,  before  him  lay  ; 
But  through  the  dark,  and  through  the  cold, 
And  through  the  yawning  fissures  old, 
Did  Peter  boldly  press  his  way 

Right  through  the  quarry  ; — and  behold 
A  scene  of  soft  and  lovely  hue  ! 
Where  blue  and  gray,  and  tender  green, 
Together  make  as  sweet  a  scene 
As  ever  human  eye  did  view. 

Beneath  the  clear  blue  sky  he  saw 
A  little  field  of  meadow  ground  ; 
But  field  or  meadow  name  it  not ; 
Call  it  of  earth  a  small  green  plot, 
With  rocks  encompassed  round. 


The  Swale  flowed  under  the  gray  rocks, 
But  he  flowed  quiet  and  unseen  ; 
You  need  a  strong  and  stormy  gale 
To  bring  the  noises  of  the  Swale 
To  that  green  spot,  so  calm  and  green  ! 

And  is  there  no  one  dwelling  here, 
No  hermit  with  his  beads  and  glass? 
And  does  no  little  cottage  look 
Upon  this  soft  and  fertile  nook? 
Does  no  one  live  near  this  green  grass  ? 

Across  the  deep  and  quiet  spot 
Is  Peter  driving  through  the  grass — 
And  now  he  is  among  the  trees  ; 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  sees 
A  solitary  ass. 

"  Aprize  !"  cried  Peter,  stepping  back 
To  spy  about  him  far  and  near  ; 
There's  not  a  single  house  in  sight, 
No  woodman's  hut,  no  cottage  light, 
Peter,  you  need  not  fear  ! 

There's  nothing  to  be  seen  but  woods, 
And  rocks  that  spread  a  hoary  gleam, 
And  this  one  beast,  that  from  the  bed 
Of  the  green  meadow  hangs  his  head 
Over  the  silent  stream. 

His  head  is  with  a  halter  bound  ; 
The  halter  seizing,  Peter  leapt 
Upon  the  creature's  back,  and  plied 
With  ready  heel  his  shaggy  side  ; 
But  still  the  ass  his  station  kept. 

"What's  this!"  cried  Peter,  brandishing 
A  new-peeled  sapling  ; — though  I  deem. 
This  threat  was  understood  full  well, 
Firm,  as  before,  the  sentinel 
Stood  by  the  silent  stream. 

Then  Peter  gave  a  sudden  jerk, 
A  jerk  that  from  a  dungeon  floor 
Would  have  pulled  up  an  iron  ring  ; 
But  still  the  heavy-headed  thing 
Stood  just  as  he  had  stood  before  ! 

Quoth  Peter,  leaping  from  his  seat, 
' '  There  is  some  plot  against  me  laid  ;" 
Once  more  the  little  meadow  ground 
And  all  the  hoary  cliffs  around 
He  cautiously  surveyed. 

All,  all  is  silent— rocks  and  woods, 
All  still  and  silent— far  and  near  ! 
Only  the  ass,  with  motion  dull, 
Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turns  round  his  long  left  ear. 


m 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Thought  Peter,  What  can  mean  all  this? 
Some  ugly  witchcraft  must  be  here  ! 
Once  more  the  ass,  with  motion  dull, 
Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turned  round  his  long  left  ear. 

Suspicion  ripened  into  dread  ; 
Yet  with  deliberate  action  slow, 
His  staff  high-raising,  in  the  pride 
Of  skill,  upon  the  sounding  hide, 
He  dealt  a  sturdy  blow. 

What  followed  ?— yielding  to  the  shock, 
The  ass,  as  if  to  take  his  ease, 
In  quiet  uncomplaining  mood, 
Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  stood, 
Dropped  gently  down  upon  his  knees, 

And  then  upon  his  side  he  fell, 
And  by  the  river's  brink  did  lie  ; 
And,  as  he  lay  like  one  that  mourned, 
The  beast  on  his  tormentor  turned 
A  shining  hazel  eye. 

'Twas  but  one  mild,  reproachful  look, 
A  look  more  tender  than  severe  ; 
And  straight  in  sorrow,  not  in  dread, 
He  turned  the  eye-ball  in  his  head 
Towards  the  river  deep  and  clear. 

Upon  the  beast  the  sapling  rings,— 
Heaved  his  lank  sides,  his  limbs  theystirred 
He  gave  a  groan,  and  then  another, 
Of  that  which  went  before  the  brother, 
And  then  he  gave  a  third. 

And  Peter  halts  to  gather  breath, 
And,  while  he  halts,  was  clearly  shown 
(What  he  before  in  part  had  seen) 
How  gaunt  the  creature  was,  and  lean, 
Yea,  wasted  to  a  skeleton  ! 

With  legs  stretched  out  and  stiff  he  lay  :— 
No  word  of  kind  commiseration 
Fell  at  the  sight  from  Peter's  tongue  ; 
With  hard  contempt  his  heart  was  wrung, 
With  hatred  and  vexation. 

The  meagre  beast  lay  still  as  death— 
And  Peter's  lips  with  fury  quiver- 
Quoth  he,  "  You  little  mulish  dog, 
I'll  fling  your  carcase  like  a  log 
Head-foremost  down  the  river  1 " 

An  impious  oath  confirmed  the  threat — 
That  instant,  while  outstretched  he  lay, 
To  all  the  echoes,  south  and  north, 
And  east  and  west,  the  ass  sent  forth 
A  loud  and  piteous  bray  ! 


This  outcry,  on  the  heart  of  Peter, 
Seems  like  a  note  of  joy  to  strike,— 
Joy  at  the  heart  of  Peter  knocks  ; — 
But  in  the  echo  of  the  rocks 
Was  something  Peter  did  not  like. 

Whether  to  cheer  his  coward  breast, 
Or  that  he  could  not  break  the  chain, 
In  this  serene  and  solemn  hour, 
Twined  round  him  by  demoniac  power, 
To  the  blind  work  he  turned  again.— 

Among  the  rocks  and  winding  crags — 
Among  the  mountains  far  away — 
Once  more  the  ass  did  lengthen  out 
More  ruefully  an  endless  shout, 
The  long  dry  see-saw  of  his  horrible  bray  ! 

What  is  there  now  in  Peter's  heart? 
Or  whence  the  might  of  this  strange  sound  ? 
The  moon  uneasy  looked  and  dimmer, 
The  broad  blue  heavens  appeared  to  glim- 
mer, 
And  the  rocks  staggered  all  around. 

From  Peter's  hand  the  sapling  dropped  ! 
Threat  has  he  none  to  execute — 
"  If  any  one  should  come  and  see 
That  I  am  here,  they'll  think,"  quoth  he. 
"  I'm  helping  this  poor  dying  brute." 

He  scans  the  ass  from  limb  to  limb  ; 
And  Peter  now  uplifts  his  eyes  ; — 
Steady  the  moon  doth  look  and  clear, 
And  like  themselves  the  rocks  appear, 
And  quiet  are  the  skies. 

Whereat,  in  resolute  mood,  once  more 
He  stoops  the  ass's  neck  to  seize — 
Foul  purpose,  quickly  put  to  flight  ! 
For  in  the  pool  a  startling  sight 
Meets  him,  beneath  the  shadowy  trees. 

Is  it  the  moon's  distorted  face? 
The  ghost-like  image  of  a  cloud  ? 
Is  it  a  gallows  there  portrayed  ? 
Is  Peter  of  himself  afraid  ? 
Is  it  a  coffin, — or  a  shroud? 

A  grisly  idol  hewn  in  stone  ? 
Or  imp  from  witch's  lap  let  fall? 
Or  a  gay  ring  of  shining  fairies, 
Such  as  pursue  their  brisk  vagaries 
In  sylvan  bower,  or  haunted  hall  ? 

Is  it  a  fiend  that  to  a  stake 

Of  fire  his  desperate  self  is  tethering  ? 

Or  stubborn  spirit  doomed  to  yell 

In  solitary  ward  or  cell, 

Ten  thousand  miles  from  all  his  brethren  ? 


rOEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


123 


Never  did  pulse  so  quickly  throb, 
And  never  heart  so  loudly  panted  ; 
He  looks,  he  cannot  choose  but  look  ; 
Like  one  intent  upon  a  book — 
A  book  that  is  enchanted. 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  Peter  Bell  !— 
He  will  be  turned  to  iron  soon, 
Meet  statue  for  the  court  of  fear  ! 
His  hat  is  up — and  every  hair 
Bristles — and  whitens  in  the  moon  ! 

He  looks — he  ponders — looks  again  : 
He  sees  a  motion — hears  a  groan  ; — 
His  eyes  will  burst — his  heart  will  break- 
He  gives  a  loud  and  frightful  shriek, 
And  drops,  a  senseless  weight,  as  if  his  life 
were  flown  ! 

Part  II. 

We  left  our  hero  in  a  trance, 
Beneath  the  alders,  near  the  river  ; 
The  ass  is  by  the  river  side, 
And  where  the  feeble  breezes  glide, 
Upon  the  stream  the  moonbeams  quiver. 

A  happy  respite  !— but  at  length 
He  feels  the  glimmering  of  the  moon  ; 
Wakes  with  glazed  eye,  and  feebly  sighing— 
To  sink  perhaps,  where  he  is  lying, 
Into  a  second  swoon  ! 

He  lifts  his  head — he  sees  his  staff ; 

He  touches — 'tis  to  him  a  treasure  I 

Faint  recollection  seems  to  tell 

That  he  is  yet  where  mortals  dwell — 

A  thought  received  with  languid  pleasure  ! 

His  head  upon  his  elbow  propped, 
Becoming  less  and  less  perplexed, 
Skyward  he  looks — to  rock  and  wood — 
And  then — upon  the  glassy  flood 
His  wandering  eye  is  fixed. 

Thought  he,  that  is  the  face  of  one 
In  his  last  sleep  securely  bound  ! 
So  toward  the  stream  his  head  he  bent, 
And  downward  thrust  his  staff,  intent 
The  river's  depth  to  sound. 

Now— like  a  tempest-shattered  bark 
That  overwhelmed  and  prostrate  lies, 
And  in  a  moment  to  the  verge 
Is  lifted  of  a  foaming  surge — 
Full  suddenly  the  ass  doth  rise  ! 


His  staring  bones  all  shake  with  joy — 
And  close  by  Peter's  side  he  stands  : 
While  Peter  o'er  the  river  bends, 
The  little  ass  his  neck  extends, 
And  fondly  licks  his  hands. 

Such  life  is  in  the  ass's  eyes — 
Such  life  is  in  his  limbs  and  ears — 
That  Peter  Bell,  if  he  had  been 
The  veriest  coward  ever  seen, 
Must  now  have  thrown  aside  his  fears. 

The  ass  looks  on — and  to  his  work 
Is  Peter  quietly  resigned  ; 
He  touches  here — he  touches  there — 
And  now  among  the  dead  man's  hair 
I  lis  sapling  Peter  has  entwined. 

He  pulls—  and  looks—  and  pulls  again  ; 
And  he  whom  the  poor  ass  has  lost, 
The  man  who  had  been  four  days  dead, 
Head  foremost  from  the  river's  bed 
Uprises — like  a  ghost ! 

And  Peter  draws  him  to  dry  land  ; 
And  through  the  brain  of  Peter  pass 
Some  poignant  twitches,  fast  and  faster, 
"  No  doubt,"  quoth  he,    "  he  is  the  master 
Of  this  poor  miserable  ass  !  " 

The  meagre  shadow  all  this  while — 
What  aim  is  his?  what  is  he  doing? 
His  sudden  fit  of  joy  is  flown, — 
He  on  his  knees  hath  laid  him  down, 
As  if  he  were  his  grief  renewing. 

Bnt  no — his  purpose  and  his  wish 
The  suppliant  shows,  well  as  he  can  ; 
Thought  Peter,  whatsoe'er  betide, 
I'll  go,  and  he  my  way  will  guide 
To  the  cottage  of  the  drowned  man. 

Encouraged  by  this  hope,  he  mouni 
Upon  the  pleased  and  thankful  ass  ; 
And  then,  without  a  moment's  stay, 
That  earnest  creature  turned  away, 
Leaving  the  body  on  the  grass. 

Intent  upon  his  faithful  watch, 
The  beast  four  days  and  nights  had  passed 
A  sweeter  meadow  ne'er  was  seen, 
And  there  the  ass  four  days  had  been, 
Nor  ever  once  did  break  his  fast  1 

Yet  firm  his  step,  and  stout  his  heart ! 
The  mead  is  crossed— the  quarry's  mouth 
Is  reached — but  there  the  trusty  guide 
Into  a  thicket  turns  aside, 
And  takes  his  way  towards  the  south. 


124 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


When  hark  a  burst  of  doleful  sound  ! 
And  Peter  honestly  might  say, 
The  like  came  never  to  his  ears, 
Though  he  has  been,  full  thirty  years, 
A  rover — night  and  day. 

'Tis  not  a  plover  of  the  moors, 

'Tis  not  a  bittern  of  the  fen  ; 

Nor  can  it  be  a  barking  fox — 

Nor  night-bird  chambered  in  the  rocks — 

Nor  wild-cat  in  a  woody  glen  ! 

The  ass  is  startled — and  stops  short 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  thicket  ; 
And  Peter,  wont  to  whistle  loud 
Whether  alone  or  in  a  crowd, 
Is  silent  as  a  silent  cricket. 

What  ails  you  now,  my  little  Bess? 
Well  may  you  tremble  and  look  grave  ! 
This  cry — that  rings  along  the  wood, 
This  cry — that  floats  adown  the  flood, 
Comes  from  the  entrance  of  a  cave  ; 

I  see  a  blooming  wood-boy  there, 
And,  if  I  had  the  power  to  say 
How  sorrowful  the  wanderer  is, 
Your  heart  would  be  as  sad  as  his 
Till  you  had  kissed  his  tears  away  ! 

Holding  a  hawthorn  branch  in  hand, 
All  bright  with  berries  ripe  and  red, 
Into  the  cavern's  mouth  he  peeps — 
Thence  back  into  the  moonlight  creeps 
What  seeks  the  boy? — the  silent  dead — 

His  father  ! — Him  doth  he  require, 
Whom  he  hath  sought  with  fruitless  pains, 
Among  the  rocks,  behind  the  trees, 
Now  creeping  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
Now  running  o'er  the  open  plains. 

And  hither  is  he  come  at  last, 
When  he  through  such  a  day  has  gone, 
By  this  dark  cave  to  be  distrest 
Like  a  poor  bird — her  plundered  nest 
Hovering  around  with  dolorous  moan  ! 

Of  that  intense  and  piercing  cry 
The  listening  ass  conjectures  well ; 
Wild  as  it  is,  he  there  can  read 
Some  intermingled  notes  that  plead 
With  touches  irresistible  ; 

But  Peter,  when  he  saw  the  ass 
Not  only  stop  but  turn,  and  change 
The  cherished  tenor  of  his  pace 
That  lamentable  noise  to  chase, 
It  wrought  in  him  conviction  strange  ; 


A  faith  that,  for  the  dead  man's  sake 
And  this  poor  slave  who  loved  him  weli, 
Vengeance  upon  his  head  will  fall, 
Some  visitation  worse  than  all 
Which  ever  till  this  night  befel. 

Meanwhile  the  ass  to  reach  his  home, 
Is  striving  stoutly  as  he  may ; 
But,  while  he  climbs  the  woody  hill, 
The  cry  grows  weak — and  weaker  still 
And  now  at  last  it  dies  away ! 

So  with  his  freight  the  creature  turns 
Into  a  gloomy  grove  of  beech, 
Along  the  shade  with  footsteps  true 
Descending  slowly,  till  the  two 
The  open  moonlight  reach. 

And  there,  along  a  narrow  dell, 
A  fair  smooth  pathway  you  discern, 
A  length  of  green  and  open  road — 
As  if  it  from  a  fountain  flowed — 
Winding  away  between  the  fern. 

The  rocks  that  tower  on  either  side 
Build  up  a  wild  fantastic  scene  ; 
Temples  like  those  among  the  Hindoos, 
And    mosques,    and    spires,    and    abbey 

windows, 
And  castles  all  with  ivy  green ! 

And,  while  the  ass  pursues  his  way, 
Along  this  solitary  dell, 
As  pensively  his  steps  advance, 
The  mosques  and  spires   change  counte- 
nance, 
And  look  at  Peter  Bell ! 

That  unintelligible  cry 
Hath  left  him  high  in  preparation, — 
Convinced  that  he,  or  soon  or  late, 
This  very  night,  will  meet  his  fate — 
And  so  he  sits  in  expectation ! 

The  strenuous  animal  hath  clomb 
With  the  green  path, — and  now  he  wends 
Where,  shining  like  the  smoothest  sea, 
In  undisturbed  immensity 
A  level  plain  extends. 

But  whence  that  faintly-rustling  sound 
Which,  all  too  long,  the  pair  hath  chased ' 
— A  dancing  leaf  is  close  behind, 
Light  plaything  for  the  sportive  wind 
Upon  that  solitary  waste. 

When  Peter  spies  the  withered  leaf. 
It  yields  no  cure  to  his  distress  ; 


MIMS  OF  TlfE  IMAGINATION. 


12r 


"Whore  there  is  not  a  bush  or  tree, 
The  very  leaves  they  follow  me — 
So  huge  hath  been  my  wickedness!" 

To  a  close  lane  they  now  are  come, 
Where,  as  before,  the  enduring  ass 
.oves  on  without  a  moment's  stop, 
Nor  once  turns  round  his  head  to  crop 
A  bramble  leaf  or  blade  of  grass. 

Between  the  hedges  as  they  go, 
The  white  dust  sleeps  upon  the  lane  ; 
And  Peter,  ever  and  anon 
Back-looking,  sees,  upon  a  stone 
Or  in  the  dust,  a  crimson  stain. 

A  stain — as  of  a  drop  of  blood 

By  moonlight  made  more  faint  and  wan — 

Ha!  why  this  comfortless  despair? 

He  knows  not  how  the  blood  comes  there, 

And  Peter  is  a  wicked  man. 

At  length  he  spies  a  bleeding  wound, 
Where  he  had  struck  the  creature's  head ; 
He  sees  the  blood,  knows  what  it  is, — 
A  glimpse  of  sudden  joy  was  his, 
But  then  it  quickly  fled  ; 

Of  him  whom  sudden  death  had  seized 
He  thought, — of  thee,  O  faithful  ass  ! 
And  once  again  those  darting  pains, 
As  meteors  shoot  through  heaven's  wide 

plains, 
Pass  through  his  bosom — and  repass ! 

Part  III. 

I'VE  heard  of  one,  a  gentle  soul, 
Though  given  to  sadness  and  to  gloom, 
And  for  the  fact  will  vouch, — one  night 
It  chanced  that  by  a  taper's  light 
This  man  was  reading  in  his  room  ; 

Bending,  as  you  or  I  might  bend 
At  night  o'er  any  pious  book, 
When  sudden  blackness  overspread 
The  snow-white  page  on  which  he  read, 
And  made  the  good  man  round  him  look. 

The  chamber  walls  were  dark  all  round, — 

And  to  his  book  he  turned  again  ; 

The  light  had  left  the  good  man's  taper, 

And  formed  itself  upon  the  paper 

Into  large  letters — bright  and  plain  ! 

The  godly  book  was  in  his  hand — 
And,  on  the  page  more  black  than  coal, 


Appeared,  set  forth  in  strange  array, 
A  word — which  to  his  dying  day 
Perplexed  the  good  man's  gentle  soul. 

The  ghostly  word,  full  plainly  seen, 
Did  never  from  his  lips  depart ; 
But  he  hath  said,  poor  gentle  wight ! 
It  brought  full  many  a  sin  to  light 
Out  of  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

Dread  spirits !  to  torment  the  good 
Why  wander  from  your  course  so  far, 
Disordering  colour,  form,  and  statun- ! 
Let  good  men  feel  the  soul  of  nature, 
And  see  things  as  they  are. 

I  know  you,  potent  spirits!  well, 
How,  with  the  feeling  and  the  sense 
Playing,  ye  govern  foes  or  friends, 
Yoked  to  your  will,  for  fearful  ends — 
And  this  I  speak  in  reverence  ! 

But  might  I  give  advice  to  you, 
Whom  in  my  fear  I  love  so  well, 
From  men  of  pensive  virtue  go, 
Dread  beings  !  and  your  empire  show 
On  hearts  like  that  of  Peter  Bell. 

Your  presence  I  have  often  felt 

In  darkness  and  the  stormy  night ; 

And  well  I  know,  if  need  there  be, 

Ye  can  put  forth  your  agency 

When  earth  is  calm,  and  heaven  is  bright. 

Then,  coming  from  the  wayward  world, 
That  powerful  world  in  which  ye  dwell, 
Come,  spirits  of  the  mind!  and  try 
To-night,  beneath  the  moonlight  sky, 
What  may  be  done  with  Peter  Bell ! 

Oh,  would  that  some  more  skilful  voice 
My  further  labour  might  prevent ! 
Kind  listeners,  that  around  me  sit, 
I  feel  that  I  am  all  unfit 
For  such  high  argument. 

I've  played  and  danced  with  my  nans 

tion — 
I  loitered  long  ere  I  began  : 
Ye  waited  then  on  my  good  pleasure, — 
Pour  out  indulgence  still,  in  measure 
As  liberal  as  ye  can  ! 

Our  travellers,  ye  remember  well, 
Are  thridding  a  sequestered  lane  ; 
And  Peter  many  tricks  is  trying, 
And  many  anodynes  applying, 
To  ease  his  conscience  of  its  pain. 


126 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


By  this  nis  heart  is  lighter  far  ; 
And,  finding  that  he  can  account 
So  clearly  for  that  crimson  stain, 
His  evil  spirit  up  again 
Does  like  an  empty  bucket  mount. 

And  Peter  is  a  deep  logician 

Who  hath  no  lack  of  wit  mercurial ; 

"Blood  drops — leaves  rustle — yet,"  quoth 

he, 
"  This  poor  man  never,  but  for  me, 
Could  have  had  Christian  burial. 

"  And,  say  the  best  you  can,  'tis  plain, 
That  here  hath  been  some  wicked  dealing  ; 
No  doubt  the  devil  in  me  wrought ; 
I'm  not  the  man  who  could  have  thought 
An  ass  like  this  was  worth  the  stealing  !" 

So  from  his  pocket  Peter  takes 
His  shining  horn  tobacco-box  ; 
And,  in  a  light  and  careless  way, 
As  men  who  with  their  purpose  play, 
Upon  the  lid  he  knocks. 

Let  them  whose  voice  can  stop  the  clouds — 
Whose  cunning  eye  can  see  the  wind — 
Tell  to  a  curious  world  the  cause 
Why,  making  here  a  sudden  pause, 
The    ass    turned    round    his    head — and 
grinned. 

Appalling  process  !  I  have  marked 
The  like  on  heath — in  lonely  wood, 
And,  verily,  have  seldom  met 
A  spectacle  more  hideous — yet 
It  suited  Peter's  present  mood. 

And,  grinning  in  his  turn,  his  teeth 
He  in  jocose  defiance  showed — 
When,  to  confound  his  spiteful  mirth, 
A  murmur,  pent  within  the  earth, 
In  the  dead  earth  beneath  the  road, 

Rolled  audibly !— it  swept  along — 
A  muffled  noise — a  rumbling  sound  ! 
'Twas  by  a  troop  of  miners  made, 
Plying  with  gunpowder  their  trade, 
Some  twenty  fathoms  under  ground. 

Small  cause  of  dire  effect ! — for,  surely, 
If  ever  mortal,  king  or  cotter, 
Believed  that  earth  was  charged  to  quake 
And  yawn  for  his  unworthy  sake, 
'Twas  Peter  Bell  the  potter ! 

But,  as  an  oak  in  breathless  air 

Will  stand  though  to  the  centre  hewn  ; 


Or  as  the  weakest  tilings,  if  frost 

Have  stiffened  them,  maintain  their  post ; 

So  he,  beneath  the  gazing  moon  ! 

Meanwhile  the  pair  have  reached  a  spot 
Where,  sheltered  by  a  rocky  cove, 
A  little  chapel  stands  alone, 
With  greenest  ivy  overgrown, 
And  tufted  with  an  ivy  grove. 

Dying  insensibly  away 
From  human  thoughts  and  purposes, 
The  building  seems,  wall,  roof,  and  tower 
To  bow  to  some  transforming  power, 
And  blend  with  the  surrounding  trees. 

Deep-sighing  as  he  passed  along, 
Quoth  Peter,  "In  the  shire  of  Fife, 
'Mid  such  a  ruin,  following  still 
From  land  to  land  a  lawless  will, 
I  married  my  sixth  wife !" 

The  unheeding  ass  moves  slowly  on, 
And  now  is  passing  by  an  inn 
Brimful  of  a  carousing  crew, 
That  make,  with  curses  not  a  few, 
An  uproar  and  a  drunken  din. 

I  cannot  well  express  the  thoughts 
Which  Peter  in  those  noises  found  ; — 
A  stifling  power  compressed  his  frame, 
As  if  confusing  darkness  came 
Over  that  dull  and  dreary  sound. 

For  well  did  Peter  know  the  sound ; 
The  language  of  those  drunken  joys 
To  him,  a  jovial  soul,  I  ween, 
But  a  few  hours  ago,  had  been 
A  gladsome  and  a  welcome  noise. 

Now,  turned  adrift  into  the  past, 
He  finds  no  solace  in  his  course ; 
Like  planet-stricken  men  of  yore, 
He  trembles,  smitten  to  the  core 
By  strong  compunction  and  remorse. 

But,  more  than  all,  his  heart  is  stung 
To  think  of  one,  almost  a  child  ; 
A  sweet  and  playful  Highland  girl, 
As  light  and  beauteous  as  a  squirrel, 
As  beauteous  and  as  wild ! 

A  lonely  house  her  dwelling  was, 
A  cottage  in  a  heathy  dell ; 
And  she  put  on  her  gown  of  green, 
And  left  her  mother  at  sixteen, 
And  followed  Peter  Bell 


FOBJfS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


IT, 


But  many  good  nnd  pious  thoughts 
Had  she  ;  and,  in  the  kirk  to  pray, 
Two  long  Scotch  miles,  through  rain  or 

snow, 
To  kirk  she  had  been  used  to  go, 
Twice  every  Sabbath-day. 

And,  when  she  followed  Peter  Bell 
It  was  to  lead  an  honest  life  ; 
For  he,  with  tongue  not  used  to  falter, 
Had  pledged  his  troth  before  the  altar 
To  love  her  as  his  wedded  wife. 

A  mother's  hope  is  hers  ;— but  soon 
She  drooped  and  pined  like  one  forlorn  ;— 
From  Scripture  she  a  name  did  borrow  ; 
Benoni,  or  the  child  of  sorrow, 
She  called  her  babe  unborn. 

For  she  had  learned  how  Peter  lived, 
And  took  it  in  most  grievous  part  ; 
She  to  the  very  bone  was  worn, 
And,  ere  that  little  child  was  born, 
Died  of  a  broken  heart. 

And  now  the  spirits  of  the  mind 
Are  busy  with  poor  Peter  Bell ; 
Upon  the  rights  of  visual  sense 
Usurping,  with  a  prevalence 
More  terrible  than  magic  spell. 

Close  by  a  brake  of  flowering  furze 
(Above  it  shivering  aspens  play) 
He  sees  an  unsubstantial  creature, 
His  very  self  in  form  and  feature, 
Not  four  yards  from  the  broad  highway  : 

And  stretched  beneath  the  furze  he  sees 
The  Highland  girl— it  is  no  other  ; 
And  hears  her  crying,  as  she  cried, 
The  very  moment  that  she  died, 
"  My  mother  !  oh,  my  mother  !" 

The  sweat  pours  down  from  Peter's  face, 
So  grievous  is  his  heart's  contrition  ; 
With  agony  his  eye-balls  ache 
While  he  beholds  by  the  furze-brake 
This  miserable  vision ! 

Calm  is  the  well-deserving  brute, 
His  peace,  hath  no  offence  betrayed  ; — ■ 
But  now,  while  down  that  slope  he  wends, 
A  voice  to  Peter's  ear  ascends, 
Resounding  from  the  woody  glade  : 

Though  clamorous  as  a  hunter's  horn 
Re-echoed  from  a  naked  rock, 
Tis  from  the  tabernacle — List  ! 


I  Within,  a  fervent  Methodist 

I  Is  preaching  to  no  heedless  flock  ! 

I  "  Repent !  repent  !"  he  cries  aloud, 

I  "While  yet  ye  may  find  mercy  ; — strive 

'  To  love  the  Lord  with  all  your  might, 

Turn  to  Him,  seek  Him  day  and  night ! 

And  save  your  souls  alive. 

"  Repent  !  repent !  though  ye  have  gone 
Through  paths  of  wickedness  and  woe, 
After  the  Babylonian  harlot, 
And,  though  your  sins  be  red  as  scarlet, 
They  shall  be  white  as  snow  1" 

Even  as  he  passed  the  door,  these  words 
Did  plainly  come  to  Peter's  ears  : 
And  they  such  joyful  tidings  were, 
The  joy  was  more  than  he  could  bear  ! — 
He  melted  into  tears.- 

Sweet  tears  of  hope  and  tenderness  ! 
And  fast  they  fell,  a  plenteous  shower  ! 
His  nerves,  his  sinews  seemed  to  melt ; 
Through  all  his  iron  frame  was  felt 
A  gentle,  a  relaxing  power  ! 

Each  fibre  of  his  frame  was  weak  ; 
Weak  all  the  animal  within  ; 
But,  in  its  helplessness,  grew  mild 
And  gentle  as  an  infant  child, 
An  infant  that  has  known  no  sin. 

Meanwhile  the  persevering  ass, 
Towards  a  gate  in  open  view, 
Turns  up  a  narrow  lane  ;  his  chest 
Against  the  yielding  gate  he  pressed, 
And  quietly  passed  through. 

And  up  the  stony  lane  he  goes  ; 
No  ghost  more  softly  ever  trod  ; 
Among  the  stones  and  pebbles,  he 
Sets  down  his  hoofs  inaudibly, 
As  if  with  felt  his  hoofs  were  shod. 

Along  the  lane  the  trusty  ass 

Had  gone  two  hundred  yards,  not  more  ; 

When  to  a  lonely  house  he  came, 

He  turned  aside  towards  the  same, 

And  stopped  before  the  door. 

Thought  Peter,  'tis  the  poor  man's  home 
He  listens— not  a  sound  is  heard 
Save  from  the  trickling  household  rill, 
But,  stepping  o'er  the  cottage-sill, 
Forthwith  a  littla  girl  appeared. 


128 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


She  to  the  meeting-house  was  bound 
In  hope  some  tidings  there  to  gather  ; 
No  glimpse  it  is — no  doubtful  gleam — 
She  saw — and  uttered  with  a  scream, 
"  My  father  !  here's  my  father  !" 

The  very  word  was  plainly  heard, 
Heard  plainly  by  the  wretched  mother — 
Her  joy  was  like  a  deep  affright ; 
And  forth  she  rushed  into  the  light, 
And  saw  it  was  another  ! 

And  instantly,  upon  the  earth, 
Beneath  the  full  moon  shining  bright, 
Close  to  the  ass's  feet  she  fell  ; 
At  the  same  moment  Peter  Bell 
Dismounts  in  most  unhappy  plight. 

What  could  he  do  ? — The  woman  lay 
Breathless  and  motionless  ;  the  mind 
Of  Peter  sadly  was  confused  ; 
But,  though  to  such  demands  unused, 
And  helpless  almost  as  the  blind, 

He  raised  her  up,  and  while  he  held 
Her  body  propped  against  his  knee, 
The  woman  waked — and  when  she  spied 
The  poor  ass  standing  by  her  side 
She  moaned  most  bitterly. 

' '  Oh  !  God  be  praised — my  heart's  at  ease- 
For  he  is  dead — I  know  it  well  !" 
At  this  she  wept  a  bitter  flood  ; 
And,  in  the  best  wav  that  he  could, 
His  tale  did  Peter  tell. 

He  trembles — he  is  pale  as  death— 
His  voice  is  weak  with  perturbation — 
He  turns  aside  his  head — he  pauses  ; 
Poor  Peter  from  a  thousand  causes 
Is  crippled  sore  in  his  narration. 

At  length  she  learned  how  he  espied 
The  ass  in  that  small  meadow  ground  ; 
And  that  her  husband  now  lay  dead, 
Beside  that  luckless  river's  bed 
In  which  he  had  been  drowned. 

A  piercing  look  the  sufferer  cast 
Upon  the  beast  that  near  her  stands  ; 
She  sees  'tis  he,  that  'tis  the  same  ; 
She  calls  the  poor  ass  by  his  name, 
And  wrings,  and  wrings  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  wretched  loss — untimely  stroke  ! 
If  he  had  died  upon  his  bed  ! 
He  knew  not  one  forewarning  pain — 
He  never  will  come  home  again — 
Is  dead — for  ever  dead  !" 


Beside  the  woman  Peter  stands  : 
His  heart  is  opening  more  and  more  ; 
A  holy  sense  pervades  his  mind  ; 
He  feels  what  he  for  human  kind 
Had  never  felt  before. 

At  length,  by  Peter's  arm 'Sustained, 
The  woman  rises  from  the  ground — 
"Oh,  mercy  !  something  must  be  done, — 
My  little  Rachel,  you  must  run, — 
Some  willing  neighbour  must  be  found. 

"  Make  haste — my  little  Rachel — do, 
The  first  you  meet  with — bid  him  come, — 
Ask  him  to  lend  his  horse  to-night — 
And  this  good  man,  whom  Heaven  requite, 
Will  help  to  bring  the  body  home." 

Away  goes  Rachel,  weeping  loud  ; — 
An  infant,  waked  by  her  distress, 
Makes  in  the  house  a  piteous  cry, 
And  Peter  hears  the  mother  sigh, 
"  Seven  are  they,  and  all  fatherless  !" 

And  now  is  Peter  taught  to  feel 

That  man's  heart  is  a  holy  thing ; 

And  Nature,  through  a  world  of  death, 

Breathes  into  him  a  second  breath, 

More  searching  than  the  breath  of  spring. 

Upon  a  stone  the  woman  sits 

In  agony  of  silent  grief — 

From  his  own  thoughts  did  Peter  start ; 

He  longs  to  press  her  to  his  heart, 

From  love  that  cannot  find  relief. 

But  roused,  as  if  through  every  limb 
Had  past  a  sudden  shock  of  dread, 
The  mother  o'er  the  threshold  flies, 
And  up  the  cottage  stairs  she  hies, 
And  to  the  pillow  gives  her  burning  herd 

And  Peter  turns  his  steps  aside 
Into  a  shade  of  darksome  trees, 
Where  he  sits  down,  he  knows  not  how, 
With  his  hands  pressed  against  his  brow, 
His  elbows  on  his  tremulous  knees. 

There,  self-involved,  does  Peter  sit 
Until  no  sign  of  life  he  makes, 
As  if  his  mind  were  sinking  deep 
Through  years  that  have  been  long  asleep ! 
The  trance  is  past  away — he  wakes, — 

He  lifts  his  head — and  sees  the  ass 
Yet  standing  in  the  clear  moonshine. 
"  When  shall  I  be  as  good  as  thou  ? 
Oh  !  would,  poor  beast,  that  I  had  now 
A  heart  but  half  as  good  as  thine  !" 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


129 


But  he — who  deviously  bath  sought 
His  father  through  the  lonesome  woods, 
Hath  sought,  proclaiming  to  the  ear 
Of  night  his  inward  grief  and  fear — 
He  comes — escaped  from  fields  and  floods; 

With  weary  pace  is  drawing  nigh — 
He  sees  the  ass — and  nothing  living 
Had  ever  such  a  fit  of  joy 
As  hath  this  little  orphan  boy, 
For  he  has  no  misgiving  ! 

Towards  the  gentle  ass  he  springs, 
And  up  about  his  neck  he  climbs  ; 
In  loving  words  he  talks  to  him, 
He  kisses,  kisses  face  and  limb, — ■ 
He  kisses  him  a  thousand  times  ! 

This  Peter  sees,  while  in  the  shade 
He  stood  beside  the  cottage  door  : 
And  Peter  Bell,  the  ruffian  wild, 


Sobs  loud,  he  sobs  even  like  a  child, 
"  Oh  !  God,  I  can  endure  no  more  ! ' 

Here  ends  my  tale  : — for  in  a  trice 
Arrived  a  neighbour  with  his  horse  ; 
Peter  went  forth  with  him  straightway 
And,  with  due  care,  ere  break  of  day 
Together  they  brought  back  the  corse. 

And  many  years  did  this  poor  ass, 
Whom  once  it  was  my  luck  to  see 
Cropping  the  shrubs  of  Lcming  Lane, 
Help  by  his  labour  to  maintain 
The  widow  and  her  family. 

And  Peter  Bell,  who,  till  that  night, 
Had  been  the  wildest  of  his  clan, 
Forsook  his  crimes,  repressed  his  folly, 
And  after  ten  months'  melancholy, 
Became  a  good  and  honest  man. 


[isallattc0us  <§0imris. 


TO  . 

Happy  the  feeling  from  the  bosom  thrown 
In  perfect  shape  (whose  beauty  time  shall 

spare 
Though  abreath  made  it)like  a  bubble  blown 
For  summer  pastime  into  wanton  air  ; 
Happy  the  thought  best  likened  to  a  stone 
Of    the    sea-beach,   when,    polished  with 

nice  care, 


Veins  it  discovers  exquisite  and  rare, 
Which  for  the  loss  of  that  moist  gleam  atone 
That  tempted  first  to  gather  it.     O  chief 
Of  friends  !  such  feelings  if  I  here  present, 
Such  thoughts,  with  others  mixed  less  for- 
tunate ; 
Then  smile  into  my  heart  a  fond  belief 
That  thou,  if  not  with  partial  joy  elate, 
Receiv'st  the  gift  for  more  than  mild  con- 
tent ! 


Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow 

room  ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells  ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels  : 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy ;  bees  that  soar  for 

bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness  Fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells  : 
In  truth,  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is  :  and  hence  to  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground  ■ 
Pleased  if  some  souls  (for  such  there  needs 

must  be) 


Who  have  felt  the   weight  of   too  much 

liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have 

found. 


WRITTEN   IN   VERY   EARLY  YOUTH. 

Calm  is  all  nature  as  a  resting  wheel. 
The  kine  are  couched  upon  the  dewy  grass  ; 
The  horse  alone,  seen  dimly  as  I  pass, 
Is  cropping  audibly  his  later  meal  :     [steal 
Dark  is  the  ground  ;  a  slumber  seems  to 
O'er  vale,  and  mountain,  andthestarlesssky. 
Now,  in  this  blank  of  things,  a  harmony, 
Home-felt,  and  home-created,  seemi  to  heal 


130 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


That  grief  for  which  the  senses  still  supply- 
Fresh  food  ;  for  only  then,  when  memory 
Is   hushed,   am    I    at   rest.      My  friends ! 

restrain 
Those  busy  cares  that  would  allay  my  pain  : 
Oh  I  leave  me  to  myself ;  nor  let  me  feel 
The  officious  touch  that  makes  me  droop 

again.  

ADMONITION. 
Intended   more  particularly  for  the  perusal  of 
those  who   may  have    happened   to   be   ena- 
moured of  some  beautiful  place  of  retreat,  in 
the  country  of  the  lakes. 
Well    mayst  thou  halt,   and  gaze  with 

brightened  eye  ! 
The  lovely  cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath   stirred  thee  deeply ;   with   its   own 

dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 
But  covet  not  the  abode  ;— forbear  to  sigh, 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look  ; 
Intruders  who  would   tear   from   nature's 

book 
This  precious  leaf,  with  harsh  impiety. 
Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were 

thin?,  [window,  door, 

Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants  ! — Roof, 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  poor, 
The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine  : 
Yea.  all,  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the 

day  [away. 

On  which  it  should  be  touched  would  melt 


•' Beloved  vale  !''  I  said,   "when  I  shall 

con 
rhose  many  records  of  my  childish  years, 
Remembrance  of  myself  and  of  my  peers 
Will  press  me  down  :  to  think  of  what  is 

gone 
Will  be  an  awful  thought,  if  life  have  one." 
But,  when  into  the  vale  I  came,  no  fears 
Distressed  me  ;  from  mine  eyes  escaped  no 

tears  ; 
Deep  thought,  or  awful  vision,  had  I  none. 
By   doubts    and    thousand    petty   fancies 

crost, 
1  stood  of  simple  shame  the  blushing  thrall  ; 
So  narrow  seemed  the  brooks,  the  fields  so 

small. 
A  juggler's  balls  old  time  about  him  tossed  ; 
I   looked,   I  stared,    I  smiled,   I  laughed  ; 

and  all 
The  weight  of  sadness  was  in  wonder  lost. 


Pelion  and  Ossa  flourish  side  by  side, 
Together  in  immortal  books  enrolled  : 
His  ancient  dower  Olympus  hath  not  sold 


And  that  inspiring  hill  which  "  did  divide 
Into  two  ample  horns  his  forehead  wide," 
Shines  with  poetic  radiance  as  of  old  ; 
While  not  an  English  mountain  we  behold 
By  the  celestial  muses  glorified,     [crowds  : 
Yet  round  our  sea-girt  shore  they  rise  in 
What  was  the  great  Parnassus'  self  to  thee, 
Mount  Skiddaw  ?  In  his  natural  sovereignty 
Our  British  hill  is  fairer  far  :  he  shrouds 
His  double  front  among  Atlantic  clouds, 
And  pours  forth  streams  more  sweet  than 
Castaly. 

There  is  a  little  unpretending  rill 
Of  limpid  water,  humbler  far  than  aught 
That  ever  among  men  or  naiads  sought 
Notice  or  name  ! — It  quivers  down  the  hill, 
Furrowing  its  shallow   way  with   dubious 

will ;  [brought 

Yet    to    my   mind   this   scanty    stream   is 
Oftener  than  Ganges  or  the  Nile,  a  thought 
Of  private  recollection  sweet  and  still ! 
Months  perish  with  their  moons  ;year  treads 

on  year ; 
But,  faithful  Emma,  thou  with  me  canst 

say  [pear, 

That,  while  ten  thousand  pleasures  disap- 
And  flies  their  memory  fast  almost  as  they, 
The  immortal  spirit  of  one  happy  day 
Lingers  beside  that  rill,  in  vision  clear. 

Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze  the  boat 
Lingers,  but  fancy  is  well  satisfied  ;    [side, 
With  keen-eyed  hope,  with  memory,  at  her 
And  the  glad  muse  at  liberty  to  note 
All  that  to  each  is  precious,  as  we  float 
Gently  along  ;  regardless  who  shall  chide 
If  the  heavens  smile,  and  leave  us  free  to 

glide, 
Happy  associates  breathing  air  remote 
From  trivial  cares.   But,  fancy  and  the  muse, 
Why  have  I  crowded  this  small  bark  with  you 
And  others  of  your  kind,  ideal  crew  ! 
While  here  sits  one  whose  brightness  owes 

its  hues 
Toflesh  and  blood  ;  no  goddess  from  above, 
No  fleeting  spirit,  but  my  own  true  love  ? 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade  ; 
The  sweetest  notes  must  terminate  and  die; 
O  friend  !  thy  flute  has  breathed  a  harmony 
Softly  resounded  through  this  rocky  glade  ; 
Such  strains  of  rapture  as  the  genius  played 
In  his  still  haunt  on  Bagdad's  summit  high  ;* 
He  who  stood  visible  to  Mirza's  eye, 


*  See  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  in  the  Spectator 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


131 


Never  before  to  human  sight  betrayed. 
Lo,  in  the  vale,  the  mists  of  evening  spread  ! 
The  visionary  arches  are  not  there, 
Nor  the  green  islands,  nor  the  shining  seas  ; 
Yet  sacred  is  to  me  this  mountain's  head, 
From  which  1  have  been  lifted  on  the  breeze 
Of  harmony,  above  all  earthly  care. 


UPON  THE  SIGHT  OF   A   BEAUTIFUL 
PICTURE, 

(Painted  by  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart.) 

Praised  be  the  art  whose  subtle  power 

could  stay 
Yon  cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape  ; 
Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape, 
Nor  those  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the 
day  ;  [their  way, 

Which  stopped  that  band  of  travellers  on 
I. re  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood  ; 
And  showed  the  bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 
For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  bay. 
Soul-soothing  art !  which  morning,  noon- 
tide even 
Do  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry  ; 
Thou,  with  ambition  modest  yet  sublime, 
Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast 
given  [time 

To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting 
The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 

"Why,   minstrel,    these    untuneful    mur- 

murings —  [jar?" 

Dull,  flagging  notes  that  with  each  other 
"  Think,  gentle  lady,  of  a  harp  so  far 
From   its  own   country,    and  forgive   the 

strings." 
A  simple  answer  !  but  even  so  forth  springs, 
From  the  Castalian  fountain  of  the  heart, 
The  poetry  of  life,  and  all  that  art 
Divine    of     words    quickening    insensate 

things. 
From  the  submissive  necks  of  guiltless  men 
Sti  etched  on  the  block,  the  glittering  axe 

recoils  ; 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  struggle  in  the  toils 
Of  mortal  sympathy  ;  what  wonder  then     | 
If  the  poor  harp  distempered  music  yields  I 
To  its  sad  lord,  far  from  lis  native  fields?    j 


How,  with  the  muse's  aid,  her  love  attest  i 
Ey  planting  on  thy  naked  head  the  crest 
Of  an  imperial  castle,  which  the  plough 
Of  ruin  shall  not  touch.     Innocent  scheme  ! 
That  doth  presume  no  more  than  to  supply 
A  grace  the  sinuous  vale  and  roaring  stream 
Want,  through  neglect  of  hoar  antiquity. 
Rise,  then,  ye  votive  towers,  and  catch  a 

gleam 
Of  golden  sunset,  ere  it  fade  and  die  I 


0  gentle  sleep  ;  do  they  belong  to  thee, 
These  twinklings  of  oblivion  1   Thou  dost 

love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  dove, 
A  captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 
This  tiresome  night,  O  sleep  !  thou  art  to  me 
A  fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove 
Upon  a  fretful  rivulet,  now  above 
Now  on  the  water  vexed  with  mockery. 

1  have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no  ; 
Hence  am  I  cross  and  peevish  as  a  child  ; 
Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe, 
Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled  : 

O  gentle  creature  !  do  not  use  me  so, 
But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 


TO    SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  b<;es 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and 

seas,  [pure  sky  ; 

Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and 
By  turns  have  all  been  thought  of ;  yet  I  lie 
Sleepless,  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard 

trees  ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more, 

I  lay,  [stealth  : 

And  could   not  win    thee,  sleep  !  by  any 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  thee  what    is  all  the    morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  betwixt  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous 

health  ! 


Aerial  rock — whose  solitary  brow 

From  this  low  threshold  daily  meets  my 

sight, 
When  I  step  forth  to  hail  the  morning  light ; 
Or  quit  the  stars  with  lingering  farewell — 

how 
Shall  fancy  pay  to  thee  a  grateful  vow  ? 


TO  SLEEP. 


Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee, 

sleep  !  [names ; 

And  thou  hast  had  thy  store  of  tenderes/ 

The  verv  sweetest  words  that  fancy  frame* 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


When  thankfulness  01  heart  is  strong  and 

deep  ! 
Dear  bosom  child  we  call  thee,  that  dost 

steep  [tames 

In  rich  reward    all  suffering;    balm  that 
All  anguish  ;   saint  that  evil  thoughts  and 

aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep, 
!  .ike  tr>  a  breeze  from  heaven.  Shall  I  alone, 
I  surely  not  a  man  ungently  made, 
Call  thee  worst  tyrant  by  which  flesh  is  crost  r 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown, 
Mere   slave  of  them  who   never  for  thee 
prayed,  [most  ! 

Still  last  to   come  where  thou  art  wanted 


THE   WILD   DUCK'S   NEST. 

The  imperial  consort  of  the  fairy  king 
Owns  not  a  sylvan  bower  ;  or  gorgeous  cell 
With  emerald  floored,  and  with  purpureal 

shell 
Ceilinged  and  roofed  ;  that  is  so  fair  a  thing 
As   this   low    structure— for   the   tasks  of 
spring  [swell 

Prepared  by  one   who  loves  the  buoyant 
Of  the  brisk  waves,  yet  here  consents  to 
dwell ;  [brooding-wing. 

And     spreads    in    steadfast     peace     her 
Words  cannot  paint  the  o'ershadowing yew- 
tree-bough, 
And  dimly-gleaming  nest,— a  hollow  crown 
Of  golden  leaves  inlaid  with  silver  down, 
Fine  as  the  mother's  softest  plumes  allow  : 
I  gaze— and  almost  wish  to  lay  aside 
Humanity,  weak  slave  of  cumbrous  pride  ! 


TO  THE  POET,  JOHN  DYER, 

Bard  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful   geniur 

made  (bright- 

That  work  a    living   landscape   fair  and 
Nor  hallowed  less  with  musical  delight 
Than  those  soft  scenes  through  which  thy 

childhood  strayed, 
Those  southern  tracts  of  Cambria,    "deep 

embayed, 
With    green    hills   fenced,     with   ocean's 

murmur  lulled," 
Though   hasty  fame  hath  many  a  chaplet 
.,      culled  [shade 

tor  worthless  crowns,  while  in  the  pensive 
Of    cold    neglect    she    leaves   thy     head 

ungraced,  [and  still, 

Yet  pure  and  powerful  minds,  hearts  meek 
A  grateful  few,  shall  love  thy  modest  lay, 
Long  as  the  shepherd's  bleating  flock  shall 

stray 
O  er  naked  Snowdon's  wide  aerial  waste  ; 
Long  as  the  thrush  shall  pipe  on  Grongar 


WRITTEN   UPON    A    BLANK    LEAF   IN 
"  THE   COMPLETE  ANGLER." 

While  flowing  rivers  yield   a  blameless 

sport,  [benign  ! 

Shall   live   the   name   of  Walton  ;  —  sa^e 
Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 
Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 
To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 
That  nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine. 
Meek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline,' 
He    found    the    longest  summer  day  'too 

short, 
To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 
Or  down  the  tempting  maze'  of  Shawford 

brook ! 
Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  book, 
The  cowslip  bank  and  shady  willow  tree, 
And  the  fresh  meads  ;  where  flowed  from 

every  nook 
Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  piety  ! 


ON  THE  DETRACTION  WHICH  FOLLOWED 
THE   PUBLICATION   OF  A   CERTAIN  POEM. 

See  Milton's  sonnet,  beginning  "  A  book  was 
writ  of  late  called  'Tetrachordon.'  " 

A  book  came  forth  of  late,  called  "  Peter 
vr     Bell;"  [g00d 

Not  negligent  the  style  ;— the  matter  ?— 
As  aught  that  song  record  of  Robin  Hood  ; 
Or  Roy,  renowned  through  many  a  Scottish 

dell  ; 

But  some    (who    brook    these  hackneyed 

themes  full  well,  (blood) 

Nor  heat  at  Tarn  o'Shanter's  name  their 

Waxed  wroth,  and  with  foul  claws,  a  harpy 

brood, 
On  bard  and  hero  clamorously  fell. 
Heed  not,   wild  rover  once  through  heath 
„_  and  glen,  [choice, 

Whomad'st  at  length   the  better  life  thy 
Heed  not  such  onset  !  nay,  if  praise  of  men 
To  thee  appear  not  an  unmeaning  voice, 
Lift  up    that    gray-haired   forehead,   and 

rejoice 
In  the  just  tribute  of  thy  poet's  pen  ! 


TO  THE   RIVER   DERWENT. 

Among  the  mountains  were   we  nursed, 
loved  stream  !  [sai!, 

Thou,   near  the  eagle's  nest— within  brief 
L  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale, 


31JSCE1,  LA  XEO  US  SONNK TS. 


133 


Where  thy  deep    voice  could   lull  me ! — 

Faint  the  beam 
Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 
On  mortal  notice.— Glory  of  the  vale,  [frail 
Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a  crown  though 
Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 
Of  thy  soft    breath  !— Less   vivid  wreath 

entwined  [worn, 

■Nemcean  victor's   brow  ;   less  bright   was 
.'Meed  of  some  Roman  chief— in  triumph 

borne  [his  car 

With  captives  chained  ;  and  shedding  from 
The  sunset  splendours  of  a  finished  war 
Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


COMPOSED    IN"   ONE  OF  THE  VALLEYS  OF 
WESTMORELAND  ON   EASTER  SUNDAY. 

With  each  recurrence  of  this  glorious  morn 
That  saw  the  Saviour  in  His  human  frame 
Rise  from  the  dead,  erewhile  the  cottage- 
dame 
Put  on  fresh  raiment— till  that  hour  unworn; 
Domestic  hands  the  home-bred  wool  had 
shorn,  [fleece. 

And  she  who  span  it  culled  the  daintiest 
In  thoughtful  reverence  to  the  Prince  of 
Peace,  [thorn. 

Whose   temples  bled  beneath  the  platted 
A  blest  estate  when  piety  sublime 
These   humble   props    disdained   not !    O 

green  dales  ! 
Sad  may  be  who  heard  your  Sabbath  chime 
When  art's  abused  inventions  were  un- 
known ;  [own  ; 
Kind  nature's  various  wealth  was  all  your 
And  benefits  were  weighed  in  reason's 
scales  ! 


Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend 
Now  that    the    cottage  spinning-wheel  is 

mute  ; 
And  care— a  comforter  that  best  could  suit 
Her  froward  mood,  and  softliest  reprehenc  ; 
And  love— a  charmer's  voice,  that   used  to 

lend, 
More  efficaciously  than  aught  that  flows 
From    harp   or  'lute,     kind  influence    to 

compose 
The     throbbing     pulse,  —  else     troubled 

without  end  ;  [rest 

Even  joy  could  tell,  joy  craving  truce  and 
From  her  own  overflow,  what  power  sedate 
On  those  revolving  motions  did  await 
Assiduously,  to  soothe  her  aching  breast — 
And — to  a  point  of  just  relief — abate 
The  mantling  triumphs  of  a  day  too  blest. 


Excuse  is  needless  when  with  love  sincere 

Of  occupation,  not  by  fashion  led, 

Thou   turn  st   the   wheel   that  slept    with 

dust  o  erspread  ; 
My  nerves  from  no  such  murmur  shrink — 

though  near, 
Soft  as  the  dorhawk's  to  a  distant  ear, 
When  twilight  shades  bedim  the  mountain's 

head.  [thread 

She  who  was   feigned   to  spin   our  vital 
Might  smile,  O  lady  !  on  a  task  once  dear 
To  household  virtues.     Venerable  art, 
Torn  from  the  poor  !  yet  will  kind  Heaven 

protect 
Its  own,  not  left  without  a  guiding  chart, 
If  rulers,  trusting  with  undue  respect 
To  proud  discoveries  of  the  intellect, 
Sanction  the  pillage  of  man's  ancient  heart. 


DECAY   OF   PIETY. 

Oft  have  I   seen,  ere  time  had  ploughed 

my  cheek,  [call 

Matrons  and  sires — who,   punctual  to  the 
Of  their  loved  church,  on  fast  or  festival 
Through  the  long  year  the  house  of  prayer 

would  seek : 
By  Christmas  snows,  by  visitation  bleak 
Of  Easter  winds,  unscared,  from  hut  or  hall 
They  came  to  lowly  bench  or   sculptured 

stall, 
But  with  one  fervour  of  devotion  meek. 
I  see  the  places  where  they  once  were  known, 
And    ask,    surrounded    even  by  kneeling 

crowds, 
Is  ancient  piety  for  ever  flown  ? 
Alas !  even  then  they  seemed  like  fleecy 

clouds  [have  won 

That,  struggling  through  the  western  sky, 
Their  pensive  light  from  a  departed  sun  ! 


COMPOSED  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE 
MARRIAGE  OF  A  FRIEND,  IN  THK 
VALE  OF  GRASMERE. 

What  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribands 

gay, 
These  humble  nuptials  to  proclaim  or  grace  ? 
Angels  of  love,  look  down  upon  the  place, 
Shed  on  the  chosen  vale  a  sun-bright  day  ! 
Yet   no  proud   gladness  would  the    bride 

display 
Even  for  such  promise  ;— serious  is  her  face. 
Modest  her  mien  ;  and  she,  whose  thoughts 

keep  pace* 
With  centleness,  in  that  becoming  way 


m 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


Will  thank  you.     Faultless  doth  the  maid 

appear, 
No  disproportion  in  her  soul,  no  strife  : 
But,  when  the  closer  view  of  wedded  life 
Hath  shown  that  nothing  human  can  be 

clear 
From  frailty,  for  that  insight  may  the  wife 
To  her  indulgent  lord  become  more  dear. 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yes  !  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep 

pace, 
And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed  ; 
For  if  of  our  affections  none  find  grace 
In  sight  of  Heaven,  then,   wherefore  hath 

(iod  made 
The  world  which  we  inhabit  !     Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have,  than  that  in  loving  thee 
Glory  to  that  eternal  peace  is  paid, 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and   makes    pure  all    gentle 

hearts. 
His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour  ; 
But,  in  chaste  hearts  uninfluenced  by  the 

power  [less  flower, 

Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  death- 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 


That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed  : 
Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art   the 

seed,  [may: 

That  quickens  only  where  Thou  say'st  it 
Unless  Thou  show  to  us  Thine  own  true 

way  [lead. 

No  man  can  find  it.     Father  !  Thou  must 
Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into 

my  mind 
By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 
That  in  Thv  holy  footsteps  1  may  tread  ; 
The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 
That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 
And  sound  Thy  praises  everlastingly. 


FROM   THE   SAME. 

No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold 
When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine, 
And  my  soul  felt  her  destiny  divine, 
And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold: 
Heaven-born,    the    soul    a    heaven-ward 

course  must  hold  ; 
Beyond  the  visible  world  she  soars  to  seek 
( For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and 

weak) 
Ideal  form,  the  universal  mould. 
The  wise  man,  I  affirm,  can  find  no  rest 
In  that  which  perishes  :  nor  will  he  lend 
His  heart    to   aught  which  doth  on  time 

depend. 
'Tis  sense,  unbridled  will,    and   not   true 

love,  [best, 

That  kills  the  soul :  love  betters  what  is 
Even   here   below,    but    more  in  heaven 

above. 

FROM  THE   SAME. 
TO  THE  SUPREME  BEING. 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet 

indeed 
Tf  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  : 
My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 


Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  wind 
I  turned  to  share  the  transport — Oh  !  with 

whom 
But  thee  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find, 
Love,  faithful  love,   recalled  thee  to  my 

mind—  [power, 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee?— Through  what 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss?— That  thought's 

return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no 

more  ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 


N 1  ethought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne 
Which  mists  and  vapours  from  mine  eyes 

did  shroud — 
Nor  view  of  who  might  sit  thereon  allowed; 
But  all  the  steps  and  ground  about  were 

strown 
With  sights  the  ruefullest  that  flesh  and  bone 
Ever  put  on  ;  a  miserable  crowd, 
Sick,  hale,  old,  young,  who  cried  before 

that  cloud,  [groan  !" 

"Thou  art  our  king,  O  Death  !  to  thee  we 
I  seem  to  mount  those  steps  ;  the  vapours 

gave 
Smooth  way  ;  and  I  beheld  the  face  of  one 
Sleeping  alone  within  a  mossy  cave, 
With  her  face  up  to  heaven  ;  that  seemed 

to  have  [gone ; 

Pleasing  remembrance  of  a  thought  fore- 
A  lovely  beauty  in  a  summer  grave  ! 

"Weak  is  the  will  of  man,  his  judgment 

blind  ; 
Remembrance  persecutes,  and  hope  betrays' 


MJSCELLANEO US  FONNE  TB. 


135 


Heavy  is  woe  ;— and  joy,   for  human-kind, 
A  mournful  thing,  so  transient  is  the  blaze!" 
Thus  might  he  paint  our  lot  of  mortal  daj  s 
Who  wants  the  glorious  faculty  assigned 
To  elevate  the  more-than-reasoning  mind, 
And  colour  life's  dark  cloud  with  orient  rays. 
Imagination  is  that  sacred  power, 
Imagination  lofty  and  refined  ; 
Tishers  to  pluck  the  amaranthine  flower 
Of  Faith,  and  round  the  sufferer's  temples 

bind  [shower, 

Wreaths   that   endure   affliction's  heaviest 
And  do  not  shrink  from  sorrow's  keenest 

wind. 


It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  His  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  child !  dear  girl  1  that  walkest  with 

me  here,  [thought, 

If  thou   appear'st   untouched   by   solemn 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year  ; 
And    worshipp'st    at    the    temple's   inner 

shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  yon  ship 

must  go  ? 
Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array  ; 
As  vigorous  as  a  lark  at  break  of  day  : 
Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow  ? 
What  boots  the  inquiry  ? — Neither  friend 

nor  foe 
She  cares  for;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 
She  finds  familiar  names,  a  beaten  way 
Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 
Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark  ? 
And,    almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were 

rare,  [and  there 

(From   time   to  time,  like  pilgrims,    here 
Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something 

dark, 
Of  the  old  sea  some  reverential  fear, 
Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  bark  ! 

With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and 

nigh, 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed ; 
Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 
Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not 

why. 


A  goodly  vessel  did  I  then  espy 
Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad  ; 
And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 
"  Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high, 
This  ship  was  nought  to  me,  nor  1  to  hei-. 
Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  lover's  look  ; 
This  ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer  : 
When  will  she  turn,    and  whither?    She 

will  brook  [must  stir. 

No  tarrying  ;  where  she  comes  the  winds 
On  went  she, — and  due  north  her  journey 

took. 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and 

soon,  [powers: 

Getting  and  spending,    we  lay  waste  our 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid 

boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And    are  up-gathered   now   like  sleeping 

flowers  ; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune  , 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


A  volant  tribe  of  bards  on  earth  are  found, 
Who,  while  the  flattering  zephyrs  round 

them  play,  [of  clay  ; 

On  "  coignes  of  vantage  "  hang  their  nests 
How  quickly  from  that  aery  hold  unbound, 
Dust  for  oblivion  !  To  the  solid  ground 
Of  nature  trusts  the  mind  that  builds  foraye  ; 
Convinced  that  there,  there  only,  she  can  lay 
Secure  foundations.  As  the  year  runs  round, 
Apart  she  toils  within  he  chosen  ring  ; 
While  the  stars  shine,  or  while  day's  purple 

eye 
Is  gently  closing  with  the  flowers  of  spring; 
Where  even  the  motion  of  an  angel's  wing 
Would  interrupt  the  intense  tranquillity 
Of  silent  hills,  and  more  than  silent  sky. 


How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  fancy  rocks 
The  wayward  brain,  to  saunter  through  a 

wood  ! 
An  old  place,  full  of  many  a  lovely  brood, 
Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground- 
flowers  in  flocks  ;  [stocks, 
And  wild  rose  tip-toe  upon  hawthorn 
Like  a  bold  girl,  who  plays  her  agile  pranks 
M 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


At  wakes  and  fairs  with  wandering  mounte- 
banks,—  [and  mocks 
When  she  stands  cresting  the  clown's  head, 
The  crowd  beneath  her.  Verily  I  think, 
Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a  dream 
Or  map  of  the  whole  world  :  thoughts,  link 
by  link,  [gleam 
Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such 
Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I  shrink, 
And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 


PERSONAL  TALK. 
I. 

I  axi  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk, — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies 

bright,  [stalk, 

Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  forms,  with 

chalk  [night, 

Painted  on  rich  men's  floors  for  one  feast 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim, 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 


"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "is  life  ;  we  have  seen 

and  see, 
And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe  ; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 
Sound  sense,   and  love    itself,   and  mirth 

and  glee 
Are  fostered  by  the  commenl  and  the  gibe.  " 
Even  be  it  so  :  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 
Our  daily  world's  true  worldlings,  rank  not 

me !  [lies 

Children  are  blest,  and  powerful;  their  world 
More  justly  balanced  ,  partly  at  their  feet, 
And  part  far  from  them : — sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more 

sweet ;  feyes, 

Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own 
He  is  a  slave  ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet  ! 


Dreams,  books,    are   each  a  world  ;   and 

books,  we  know, 
Areasubstantiai  world,  both  pure  and  good-. 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh 

and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous 

store  ; 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am  : 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear  ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear — 
The  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor  ; 
And  heavenly   Una   with   her  milk-white 

lamb. 


Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine  ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking ;  rancour,  never  sought, 
Comes  to  me  not  :  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passions,   smooth   discourse,  and 

joyous  thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably. 
Blessings  be  with  them — and  eternal  praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares — 
The  poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  ! 
Oh  !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among 

theirs, 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


TO   R.    B.  HAYDON,    ESQ. 

High  is  our  calling,  friend  ! — Creative  art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues,; 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  lashioned — to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to 

desert. 
And  oh  !  when  nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived    pressure    of   obscure 

distress, 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness ; 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard  ! 


1  From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed, 
Wings  have  we, — and  as  far  as  we  can  go    Spurning  the  unprofitable  yoke  of  care, 
We   may   find   pleasure  :   wilderness   and    Rise,  Gillies,  rise  :  the  gales  of  youth  shall 

wood,  [mood  bear 

Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,   support  that  J  Thy  genius  f®rward  like  a  winged  steed. 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low,        ;  Theugh  ^°Jd  Bellerophon  (so  Jove  decreed 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


137 


In  wrath)  fell  headlong  from  the  fields  of  air, 
Yet  a  rich  guerdon  waits  on  minds  that  dare, 
If  aught  be  in  them  ot  immortal  seed, 
And  reason  govern  that  audacious  flight 
Which    heaven-ward    they    direct. — Then 

droop  not  thou, 
Erroneously  renewing  a  sad  vow 
In  the  low  dell  'mid  Roslin's  faded  grove  : 
A  cheerful  life  is  whal  the  muses  love, 
A  soaring  spirit  is  their  prime  delight. 


Fair  prime  of  life  !  were  it  enough  to  gild 
With    ready    sunbeams    every    straggling 

shower ; 
And,  if  an  unexpected  cloud  should  lower, 
Swiftly  thereon  a  rainbow  arch  to  build 
For  fancy's  errands,— then,  from  fields  half- 
tilled  [flower, 
Gathering  green  weeds  to  mix  with  poppy 
Thee  might  thy  minions  crown,  and  chant 

thy  power, 
Unpitied  by  the  wise,  all  censure  stilled. 
Ah  !  show  that  worthier  honours  are  thy 

due  ; 
Fair  prime  of  life  !  arouse  the  deeper  heart  ; 
Confirm  the  spirit  glorying  to  pursue 
Some  patli  of  steep  ascent  and  lofty  aim  ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  joy  that  slights  the  claim 
Df  grateful  memory,' bid  that  joy  depart. 


I  heard  (alas  !  'twas  only  in  a  dream) 
Strains — which,  as  sage  antiquity  believed, 
By  waking  ears  have  sometimes  been  re- 
ceived 
Wafted  adown  the  wind  from  lake  or  stream  ; 
A  most  melodious  requiem, — a  supreme 
And  perfect  harmony  of  notes,  achieved 
By  a  fair  swan  on  drowsy  billows  heaved, 
O'er  which  her  pinions  shed  a  silver  gleam. 
For  is  she  not  the  votary  of  Apollo  ? 
And  knows  she  not,  singing  as  he  inspires, 
That  bliss  awaits  her  which  the  ungenial 

hollow  * 

Of  the  dull  earth  partakes  not,  nor  desires? 

Mount,  tuneful  bird,  and  join  the  immortal 

quires  !  [vain  to  follow. 

She  soared— and  I  awoke, — struggling  in 


RETIREMENT. 

If  the  whole  weight  of  what  we  think  and 

feel 
Save  only  far  as  thought  and  feeling  blend 
With  action,  were  as  nothing,  patriot  friend  ! 

*  See  the  "  Pha:  do"  of  Plato,  by  which  this  son- 
net was  suggested. 


From  thy  remonstrance  would  be  no  appeal ' 
But  to  promote  and  iortify  the  weal 
Of  our  own  being,  is  her  paramount  end  ; 
A  truth  which  they  alone  shall  comprehend 
Who  shun  the  mischief  which  they  cannot 

heal.  [bliss ; 

Peace  in  these  feverish  times  is  sovereign 
Here,  with  no  thirst  but  what  the  stream 

can  slake, 
And  startled  only  by  the  rustling  brake, 
Cool  air  I  breathe  ;  while  the  unincumbered 

mind, 
By  some  weak  aims  at  services  assigned 
To  gentle  natures,  thanks  not  heaven  amiss. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF    RAISLEY    CALVERT. 

Calvert  !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 
Who  may  respect  my  name,  that  I  to  thee 
Owed  many  years  of  early  liberty. 
This  care  was  thine  when  sickness  did  con  - 
demn  [stem  : 

Thy  youth  to  hopeless  wasting,   root  and 
That  I,  if  frugal  and  severe,  might  stray 
Where'er  I  liked  ;  and  finally  array 
My  temples  with  the  muse's  diadem. 
Hence,  if  in  freedom  I  have  loved  the  truth, 
If  there  be  aught  of  pure,  or  good,  or  great, 
In  my  past  verse  ;  or  shall  be,  in  the  lays 
Of  higher  mood,  which  now  1  meditate, — 
Itgladdensme,  O  worthy,  short-lived  youth  ! 
To  think  how  much  of  this  will  be  thy  praise. 


Scorn  not  the  sonnet ;   critic,  you  have 

frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours  ; — with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound 
Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  exile's  grief ; 
The  sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid     the     cypress    with    which     Dante 

crowned 
His  visionary  brow  ;  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  faery- 
land  [a  damp 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways  ;  and  when 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  thing  became  a  trumpet,  whence  he 

blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 


Not  love,  nor  war,   nor  the  tumultuous 

swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change, 
Nor  duty  struggling  with  afflictions  strange, 


138 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell ; 

But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord 
dwell, 

There  also  is  the  muse  not  loth  to  range, 

Watching  theblue  smoke  of  theelmy  grange, 

Skyward  ascending  from  the  twilight  dell. 

Meek  aspirations  please  her,  lone  endea- 
vour, 

And  sage  content,  and  placid  melancholy  ; 

She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a  crystal  river, 

Diaphanous,  because  it  travels  slowly  ; 

Soft  is  the  music  that  would  charm  for  ever  ; 

The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly . 


SEPTEMBER,   1815. 

While  not  a  leaf  seems  faded,— while  the 

fields, 
With  ripening  harvest  prodigally  fair, 
In  brightest  sunshine  bask,— this  nipping 
air,  [wields 

Sent  from  some  distant  clime  where  winter 
His  icy  scimitar,  a  foretaste  yields 
Of  bitter  change— and   bids   the    flowers 

beware ; 
And  whispers  to  the  silent  birds,  "  Prepare 
Against  the  threatening  foe  your  trustiest 

shields. " 
For  me,  who  under  kindlier  laws  belong 
To  nature's  tuneful  quire,  this  rustling  dry 
Through  leaves  yet  green,  and  yon  crys- 
talline sky, 
Announce  a  season  potent  to  renew, 
'Mid  frost  and  snow,  the  instinctive  joys  of 

song, 
And  nobler  cares  than  listless  summer  knew. 


NOVEMBER     I. 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously 

bright  [head, 

The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mountain's 

Which,   strewn  with  snow  as  smooth   as 

heaven  can  shed, 
Shines  like  another  sun— on  mortal  sight 
Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching  night, 
And  all  her  twinkling  stars.      Who   now 
would  tread,  [head— 

If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain's  glittering 
Terrestrial— but  a  surface,  by  the  flight 
Of  sad  mortality's  earth-sullying  wing, 
Unswept,  unstained  !    Nor  shall  the  aerial 

powers 
Dissolve  that  beauty— destined  to  endure, 
White,   radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  pure, 
Through  all  vicissitudes— till  genial  spring 
Have  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  wel- 
come flowers. 


COMPOSED   DURING   A   STORM. 

One  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul 
Yet  failed  to  seek  the  sure  relief  of  prayer, 
Went  forth — his  course  surrendering  to  the 
care  [prowl 

Of  the  fierce  wind,  while  mid-day  lightnings 
Insidiously,  untimely  thunders  growl ; 
While  trees,  dim-seen,  in  frenzied  numbers 

tear 
The  lingering  remnant  of  their  yellow  hair, 
And  shivering  wolves,  surprised  with  dark- 
ness, howl 
As  if  the  sun  were  not .  He  raised  his  eye 
Soul-smitten— for,  that  instant,  did  appeat 
Large  space,  'mid  dreadful  clouds,  of  purest 

sky, 
An  azure  orb — shield  of  tranquillity, 
Invisible,  unlooked-for  minister 
Of  providential  goodness  ever  nigh  ! 


TO   A   SNOWDROP. 

Lone  flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows,  and 

white  as  they, 
But  hardier  far,  once  more  I  see  thee  bend 
Thy  forehead,  as  if  fearful  to  offend, 
Like  an  unbidden  guest.     Though  day  by 

day,  [waylay 

Storms,  sallying  from  the  mountain-tops, 
The  rising  sun,  and  on  the  plains  descend ; 
Yet  art  thou  welcome,  welcome  as  a  friend 
Whose  zeal  outruns  his  promise  !  Blue-eyed 

May 
Shall  soon  behold  this  border  thickly  set 
With  bright  jonquils,  their  odours  lavishing 
On  the  soft  west-wind  and  his  frolic  peers  ; 
Nor  will  I  then  thy  modest  grace  forget, 
Chaste  snowdrop,  venturous  harbinger  of 

spring, 
And  pensive  monitor  of  fleeting  years  ! 


composed  a  few  days  after  the 
foregoing. 

When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie, 
And  grandeur  crouches  like  a  guilty  thing, 
Oft  shall  the  lowly  weak,  till  nature  bring 
Mature  release,  in  fair  society 
Survive,  and  fortune's  utmost  anger  try  ; 
Like  these  frail  snowdrops  that   together 

cling, 
And  nod  their  helmets  smitten  by  the  wing 
Of  many  a  furious  whirl-blast  sweeping  by. 
Observe   the  faithlul  flowers  !  if  small  to 

great  [to  stand 

May  lead  the  thoughts,  thus  struggling  used 
The  Emathian  phalanx,  nobly  obstinate ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


139 


And  so  the  bright  immortal  Theban  band, 
Whom  onset,  fiercely  urged  at  Jove's  com- 
mand, 
Might  overwhelm — but  could  not  separate  ! 


The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  nature's 

hand  ; 
The  sun  is  peopled  ;  and  with  spirits  blest, 
Say,  can  the  gentle  moon  be  unpossest  ? 
Huge  ocean  shows,  within  his  yellow  strand, 
A  habitation  marvellously  planned, 
For  life  10  occupy  in  love  and  rest ; 
All  that  we  see— is  dome,  or  vault,  or  nest, 
Or  fort,  erected  at  her  sage  command. 
Is  this  a  vernal  thought?     Even  so,   the 

spring  [heart, 

Gave  it  while  cares  were  weighing  on  my 
'Mid  song  of  biMs,  and  insects  mumuring  ; 
And  while  the  youthful  year's  prolific  art-  - 
Of   bud,    leaf,    blade,    and    flower— was 

fashioning 
Abodes,   where   self-disturbance  hath  no 

part. 

TO  LADY  BEAUMONT. 

Lady  !   the  songs  of  spring  were  in  the  ) 
grove  [flowers  ; 

While  I  was  shaping  beds  for  winter 
While    I    was    planting    green    unfading 

bowers, 
And  shrubs  to  hang  upon  the  warm  alcove, 
And  sheltering  wall;   and  still,    as   fancy 
wove  [powers 

The  dream,  to  time  and  nature's  blended 
I  gave  this  paradise  for  winter  hours, 
A  labyrinth,  lady  !  which  yourfeet  shall  rove. 
Yes  !  when  the  sun  of  life  more  feebly  shines, 
Becoming  thoughts,  I  trust,  of  solemn  gloom 
Or  of  high  gladness  you  shall  hither  bring  ; 
And  these  perennial  bowers  and  murmur- 
ing pines 
Be  gracious  as  the  music  and  the  bloom 
And  all  the  mighty  ravishment  of  spring. 


TO  THE  LADY   MARY   LOWTHER, 

With  a  selection  from  the  poems  of  Anne,  Coun- 
tess of  Winchelsea  :  and  extracts  of  similar 
character  from  other  writers  ;  transcribed  by 
a  female  friend. 

Lady  !  I  rifled  a  Parnassian  cave 
(But  seldom  trod)  of  mildly-gleaming  ore  ; 
And  culled,  from  sundry  beds,  a  lucid  store 
Of  genuine  crystals,  pure  as  those  that  pave 
The  azure  brooks  where  Dian  joys  to  lave 


Her  spotless  limbs;  and  ventured  to  explore 
Dim  shades— for    reliques,    upon   Lethe's 

shore, 
Cast  up  at  random  by  the  sullen  wave. 
To   female   hands   the   treasures  were  re- 
signed ;  [clear 
And  lo  this  work  ! — a   grotto  bright  and 
From  stain  or  taint ;  in  which  thy  blameless 
mind                                        [austere; 
May  feed  on  thoughts  though  pensive  not 
Or,  if  thy  deeper  spirit  be  inclined 
To  holy  musing,  it  may  enter  here. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
Which  only  poets  know; — 'twas  rightly  said  , 
Whom  could  the  muses  else  allure  to  tread 
Their  smoothest  paths,  to  wear  their  lightest 

chains  ? 
When  happiest  fancy  has  inspired  the  strains, 
How  oft  the  malice  of  one  luckless  word 
Pursues  the  enthusiast  to  the  social  board, 
Haunts  him  belated  on  the  silent  plains  ! 
Yet  he  repines  not,  if  his  thought  stand  clear 
At  last  of  hindrance  and  obscurity, 
Fresh  as  the  star  that  crowns  the  brow  of 

morn  ; 
Bright,  speckless  as  a  softly-moulded  tear 
The  moment  it  has  left  the  virgin  s  eye, 
Or  rain-drop  lingering  on  the  pointed  thorn. 

The  shepherd,    looking  eastward,    softlj 
said,  [bright !" 

"  Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  moon,  as  thou  art 
Forthwith,  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread, 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered  ;  dazzling  the  beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right, 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,    removed  or  thrown 
aside,  [went  ; 

Went  floating  from   her,    darkening  as  it 
And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
Approached  the  glory  of  this  firmament ; 
Who  meekly  yields,    and   is   obscured  ;— 

content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful 

hour ! 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerning  night  ; 
But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's     mutable      distinctions.        Ancient 

power !  [lower, 

Thus  did  the  waters  gleam,  the  mountains 
To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf-skin  vest 
Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down  to  rest 


li<) 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a  leafy  bower 
Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.     By  him 

was  seen 
The  self-same  vision  which  we  now  behold, 
At   thy   meek   bidding,    shadowy  power ! 

brought  forth  ;  [tween  ; 

These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf  be- 
The  floods, — the  stars, — a  spectacle  as  old 
As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth  ! 


With  how    sad    steps,    O    moon,    thou 

climb'st  the  sky, 
:'  How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  !" 
Where  art  thou  ?    Thou  whom  I  have  seen 

on  high  [rac-  ! 

Running  among  the  clouds  a  wood-nymph's 
Unhappy   nuns,  whose  common   breath's 

a  sigh  [pace  ! 

Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a 
The  northern  wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase, 
Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.  Had  I 
The  power  of  Merlin,  goddess  !  this  should 

be :  [riven, 

And  the  keen  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were 
Should  sally  forth,  an  emulous  company, 
Sparkling,  and  hurrying  through  the  clear 

blue  heaven  ;  [given, 

But,  Cynthia  !  should  to  thee  the  palm  be 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 

Even  as  the  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress 
Of  a  bedimming  sleep,  or  as  a  lamp 
Suddenly  glaring  through  sepulchral  damp, 
So  burns  yon  taper  'mid  a  black  recess 
Of  mountains,  silent,  dreary,  motionless: 
The  lake  below  reflects  it  not ;  the  sky 
Muffled  in  clouds  affords  no  company 
To  mitigate  and  cheer  its  loneliness.  ' 
Yet  round  the  body  of  that  joyless  thing, 
Which  sends  so  far  its  melancholy  light, 
Perhaps  are  seated  in  domestic  ring 
A  gay  society  with  faces  bright,  [sing, 

Conversing,  reading,  laughing  ; — or  they 
While  hearts  and  voices  in  the  song  unite. 


Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  inclose 
Yon  old  gray  stone,  protected  from  the  ray 
Of  noontide  suns  :     and  even  the  beams 

that  play  [blows, 

And  glance,  while  wantonly  the  rough  wind 
Are  seldom  free  to  touch  the  moss  that  grows 
Upon  that  roof — amid  embowering  gloom 
The  very  image  framing  of  a  tomb, 
In  wnich  some  ancient  chieftain  finds  repose 
Among  the  lonely  mountains. — Live,    ye 

trees '.  [keep 

And  thou,  gray  stone,  the  pensive  likeness 


Of  a  dark  chamber  where  the  mighty  sleep  : 
Far  more  than  fancy  to  the  influence  bends 
When  solitary  nature  condescends 
To  mimic  time  s  forlorn  humanities. 


CAPTIVITY. 

' '  As  the  cold  aspect  of  a  sunless  way 
Strikes  through  the  traveller's  frame  with 

deadlier  chill. 
Oft  as  appears  a  grove,  or  obvious  hill, 
Glistening  with  unparticipated  ray, 
Or  shining  slope  where  he  must  never  stray ; 
So  joys,  remembered  without  wish  or  will, 
Sharpen  the  keenest  edge  of  present  ill, — 
On  the  crushed  heart  a  heavier  burthen  lay. 
Just  Heaven,  contract  the  compass  of  my 

mind 
To  fit  proportion  with  my  altered  state  ! 
Quench  those  felicities  whose  light  I  find 
Reflected  in  my  bosom  all  too  late  ! 
Oh,  be  my  spirit,  like  my  thraldom,  strait ; 
And,  like  mine  eyes  that  stream  with  sorrow, 

blind." 


Brook  !  whose  society  the  poet  seeks 
Intent  his  wasted  spirits  to  renew  ; 
And  whom  the  curious  painter  doth  pursue 
Through    rocky    passes,    among    flowery 

creeks,  [breaks ; 

And  tracks  thee  dancing  down  thy  water- 
If  wish  were  mine  some  type  of  thee  to  view, 
Thee,  and  not  thee  thyself,  I  would  not  do 
Like    Grecian   artists,    give   thee  human 

cheeks, 
Channels  for  tears  j  no  naiad  shouldst  thou 

be,  [hairs  ; 

Have  neither  limbs,  feet,  feathers,  joints  nor 
It  seems  the  eternal  soul  is  clothed  in  thee 
With  purer  robes  than  those  of  flesh  and 

blood, 
And  hath  bestowed  on  thee  a  better  good  ; 
Unwearied  joy,  and  life  without  its  cares. 


COMPOSED  ON  THE    BANKS   OF   A   ROCKY 
STREAM. 

Dogmatic  teachers  of  the  snow-white  fur  ! 
Ye  wrangling  schoolmen  of  the  scarlet  hood! 
Who,  with  a  keenness  not  to  be  withstood, 
Press  the  point  home, — or  falter  and  demur, 
Checked  in  your  course  by  many  a  teasing 

burr  ; 
These  natural  council-seats  your  acrid  blood 
Might  cool ; — and,  as  the  genius  of  the  flood 
Stoops  willingly  to  animate  and  spur 
Each  lighter  function  slumbering   in  tfcfi 

brain, 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


141 


Von  eddying  balls  of  foam — these  arrowy 

gleams, 
That  o'er   the   pavement   of  the  surging 

streams 
Welter  and  flash — a  synod  might  detain 
With  subtle  speculations,  haply  vain, 
But  surely  less  so  than  your  far-fetched 

themes  ! 


THIS,  AND  THE  TWO  FOLLOWING,  WERE 
SUGGESTED  BY  MR.  W.  WESTALLS 
VIEWS  OF  THE  CAVES,  ETC.,  IN 
YORKSHIRE 

Pure  element  of  waters  !  wheresoe'er 
Thou  dost  forsake  thy  subterranean  haunts, 
Green   herbs,    bright   flowers,    and   berry- 
bearing  plants, 
Rise  into  life  and  in  thy  train  appear  : 
And,  through  the  sunny  portion  of  the  year, 
Swift    insects    shine,    thy   hovering  pur- 
suivants : 
And,  if  thy  bounty  fail,  the  forest  pants  ; 
And  hurt  and  hind  and  hunter  with  his 

spear, 
Languish  and  droop  together.  Nor  unfelt 
In  man's  perturbed  soul  thy  sway  benign  ; 
And,  haply,  far  within  the  marble  belt 
Of  central  earth,  where  tortured  spirits  pine 
For  grace  and  goodness  lost,  thy  murmurs 
melt  [with  thine.* 

Their  anguish,— and  they  blend  sweet  songs 


MALHAM    COVE. 

Was  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  guile, 
When  giants  scooped  from  out  the  rocky 

ground 
Tier  under  tier— this  semicirque  profound  ? 
(Giants — the  same  who  built  in  Erin's  isle 
That  causeway  with  incomparable  toil !) 
Oh,  had  this  vast  theatric  structure  wound 
With  finished  sweep  into  a  perfect  round, 
No  mightier  work  had  gained  the  plausive 

smile 
Of  all-beholding  Phoebus  !     But,  alas, 
Vain   earth! — false    world  !—  Foundations 

must  be  laid  [WAS, 

In  heaven  ;  for,  'mid  the  wreck  of  is  and 
Things  incomplete,  and  purposes  betrayed 
Make   sadder  transits  o'er  truth's  mystic 

glass 
Than  noblest  objects  utterly  decayed. 


GORDALE. 

At  early  dawn,  or  rather  when  the  air 
Glimmers  with  fading  light,  and  shadowy  ovt 
Is  busiest  to  confer  and  to  bereave, 
Then,  pensive  votary  !  let  thy  feet  repair 
To  Gordale-chasm,  terrific  as  the  lair 
Where  the  young  lions  couch  ; — for  so,  by 

leave 
Of  the  propitious  hour,  thou  mayst  perceive 
The  local  deity,  with  oozy  hair 
And  mineral  crown,  beside  his  jagged  urn 
Recumbent.     Him  thou  mayst  behold,  who 

hides 
His  lineaments  by  day,  yet  there  presides, 
Teaching  the  docile  waters  how  to  turn  ; 
Or,  if  need  be,  impediment  to  spurn, 
And  force  their  passage  to  the  salt- sea  tides  I 


THE  MONUMENT  COMMONLY  CALLED 

LONG  MEG  AND  HER  DAUGHTERS,  NEAR 

THE  RIVER  EDEN. 

A  weight  of  awe  not  easy  to  be  borne* 
Fell  suddenly  upon  my  spirit — cast 
From  the  dread  bosom  of  the  unknown  past, 
When  first  I  saw  that  sisterhood  forlorn  ; 
And  her,  whose  massy  strength  and  stature 

scorn  [placed 

The  power  of  years  —  pre-eminent,   and 
Apart — to  overlook  the  circle  vast. 
Speak,  giant-mother  !  tell  it  to  the  morn 
While  she  dispels  the  cumbrous  shades  of 

night  ; 
Let  the  moon  hear,  emerging  from  a  cloud, 
At  whose  behest  uprose  on  British  ground 
Thy  progeny  ;  in  hieroglyphic  round 
Forth-shadowing,  some  have  deemed,  the 

infinite, 
The  inviolable  God,  that  tames  the  proud  ! 


*  Watfrs  (as  Mr.  Westall  informs  us  in  the  let- 
ter-press prefixed  to  his  admirable  views)  are 
invariably  found  to  flow  tliruu«h  these  caverns. 


COMPOSED    AFTER   A  JOURNEY   ACROSS 
THE   HAMILTON   HILLS,    YORKSHIRE. 

Dark  and  more  dark  the  shades  of  evening 

fell ;  ["the  hour  ; 

The  wished-for  point  was  reached,  but  late 


*  The  daughters  of  Long  Meg,  placed  in  a 
perfect  circle,  eighty  yards  in  diameter,  are 
seventy-two  in  number,  and  from  more  than 
three  yards  above  ground,  to  less  than  so  many 
feet  :  a  little  way  out  of  the  circle  stands  Long 
Meg  herself,  a  single  stone,  eighteen  feet  high. 
When  the  author  first  saw  this  monument,  as  he 
came  upon  it  by  surprise,  he  might  overrate  its 
importance  as  an  object ;  but,  though  it  will  not 
bear  a  comparison   with   Stonehenuc    he  rails: 


142 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


And  little  could    be  gained  from  all  that 

dower 
Of  prospect,  whereof  many  thousands  tell. 
Yet  did  the  glowing  west  in  all  its  power 
Salute  us  : — there  stood  Indian  citadel, 
Temple  of  Greece,   and   minster  with  its 

tower 
Substantially  expressed— a  place  for  bell 
Or  clock  to  toll  from.    Many  a  tempting  isle, 
With  groves  that  never  were  imagined,  lay 
'Mid  seas  how  steadfast  !  objects  all  for  the 

eye 
Of  silent  rapture;  but  we  felt  the  while 
We  should  forget  them  ;  they  are  of  the  sky, 
And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away  ! 

"  They  are  of  the  sky, 
And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away." 

These  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive 
mood  [sight : 

We   turned,   departing  from   that  solemn 
A  contrast  and  reproach  to  gross  delight, 
And  life's  unspiritual  pleasures  daily  wooed! 
But  now  upon  this  thought  I  cannot  brood  ; 
It  is  unrtable  as  a  dream  of  night ; 
Nor  will  I  praise  a  cloud,  however  bright, 
Disparaging  man's  gifts,  and  proper  food. 
Grove,  isle,  with  every  shape  of  sky-built 

dome, 
Though  clad  in  colours  beautiful  and  pure, 
Find  in  the  heart  of  man  no  natural  home  ; 
The  immortal  mind   craves  objects  that 
endure :  [roam, 

These    cleave  to  it  ;  from  these  it  cannot 
Nor  they  from  it :  theirfellowship  is  secure. 


COMPOSED   UPON   WESTMINSTER   BRIDGE, 
SEPT.  3,   1803. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 
fair :  [by 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples 

lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless 

air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

say,  he  has  not  seen  any  other  relique  of  those 
dark  ages  which  can  pretend  to  rival  it  in  singu- 
larity and  dignity  of  appearance. 


Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep* 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

OXFORD,    MAY   30,    1820. 

Ye  sacred  nurseries  of  blooming  youth  ! 
In    whose    collegiate    shelter    England's 
flowers  [hours 

Expand— enjoying    through    their    vernal 
The  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth  ; 
Much  have  ye  suffered  from  time's  gnawing 

tooth, 
Yet,  O  ye  spires  of  Oxford  !  domes  and 
towers  1  [powers 

Garden*  and  groves  !  your  presence  over- 
The  soberness  of  reason  ;  till,  in  sooth, 
Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a  bold  ex- 
change, 
I  slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 
Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet ; 
Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 
The  stream-like  windings  of  that  glorious 

street, 
An  eager  novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown  ! 

OXFORD,    MAY   30,    1820. 

Shame  on  this  faithless  heart !  that  could 
allow  [space ; 

Such  transport — though  but  for  a  moment's 
Not  while— to  aid  the  spirit  of  the  place— 
The  crescent  moon  clove  with  its  glittering 
prow  [bough, 

The  clouds,  or  night-bird  sang  from  shady 
But  in  plain  daylight :— She  too,  at  my  side, 
Who,  with  her  heart's  experience  satisfied, 
Maintains  inviolate  its  slightest  vow  ! 
Sweet  fancy  !  other  gifts  must  I  receive  ; 
Proofs  of  a  higher  sovereignty  I  claim  ; 
Take  from  her  brow  the  withering  flowers 
of  eve,  [restore : 

And  to  that  brow  life's  morning  wreath 
Let  her  be  comprehended  in  the  frame 
Of  these  illusions,  or  they  please  no  more. 

RECOLLECTION     OF     THE     PORTRAIT     OF 

KING    HENRY  VIII.    TRINITY    LODGE, 

CAMBRIDGE. 

The  imperial  stature,  the  colossal  stride, 
Are  yet  before  me  ;  yet  do  I  behold 
The  broad  full   visage,   chest  of  amplest 
mould,  [pride : 

The  vestments  broidered  with  barbaric 
And  lo  !  a  poniard,  at  the  monarch's  side, 
Hangs  ready  to  be  grasped  in  sympathy 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


143 


With  the  keen  threafenings  of  that  fulgent  I 
eye,  [scried,  i 

Below  the  white-rimmed  bonnet,  far  de-  ! 
Who  trembles  now  at  thy  capricious  mood?  I 
'Mid  those  surrounding  worthies,  haughty' 

king ! 
We  rather  thin'-.,  with  grateful  mind  sedate, 
How  Providence  educeth,  from  the  spring 
Of  lawless  will,    unlooked-for  streams  of 
good,  [abate. 

Which  neither  force  shall  check  nor  time 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HIS    MAJESTY 
GEORGE   III. 

Ward  of  the  law  ! — dread   shadow  of  a 

king !  [room  ; 

Whose  realm  had  dwindled  to  one  stately 
Whose  universe  was  gloom  immersed  in 

gloom,  [fling, 

Darkness   as  thick  as  life  o'er  life  could 
Save  haply  for  some  feeble  glimmering 
Of  faith  and  hope  ;  if  thou,  by  nature's 

doom, 
Gently  hast  sunk  into  the  quiet  tomb, 
Why  should  we  bend  in  grief,  to  sorrow 

cling,  [flowing  tears, 

When    thankfulness    were    best ! — Fresh- 
Or,  where  tears  flow  not,  sigh  succeeding 

sigh, 
Yield  to  such  after-thought  the  sole  reply 
Which  justly  it   can   claim.     The   nation 

hears     '  [years, 

In  this   deep   knell— silent  for  threescore 
An  unexampled  voice  of  awful  memory. 


JUNE,    1820. 

Fame  tells  of  groves — from  England  far 

away* — 
Groves  that  inspire  the  nightingale  to  trill 
And  modulate,  with  subtle  reach  of  skill 
Elsewhere  unmatched,  her  ever-varying  lay; 
Such  bold  report  I  .venture  to  gainsay  : 
For  I  have  heard  the  choir  of  Richmond 

Hill 
Chanting,  with  indefatigable  bill, 
Strains,    that   recalled   to  mind  a  distant 

day;  [wood, 

When,  haply  under  shade  of  that  same 
And  scarcely  conscious  of  the  dashing  oars 
Plied  steadily  between  those  willowy  shores, 
The  sweet-souled  poet  of  "  The  Seasons  " 

stood —  [mood, 

Listening,  and  listening  long,  in  rapturous 
Ye  heavenly  birds  !  to  your  progenitors. 

»  Wallachia  is  the  country  alluded  to. 


/\    PARSONAGE    IN    OXFORDSHIRE. 

Where  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed 

ends, 
Is  marked  by  no  distinguishable  line; 
The  turf  unites,  the  pathways  intertwine; 
And,    whercsoe'er    the    stealing    footstep 
tends,  [friends, 

Garden,  and  that  domain  where  kindred, 
And  neighbours  rest  together,  here  con- 
found [sound 
Their  several  features,  mingled  like  the 
Of  many  waters,  or  as  evening  blends 
With  shady  night.  Soft  airs,  from  shrub 
and  flower,  [grave; 
Waft  fragrant  greetings  to  each  silent 
And  while  those  lofty  poplars  gently  wave 
Their  tops,  between  them  comes  and  goes 

a  sky 
Bright  as  the  glimpses  of  eternity, 
To  saints  accorded  in  their  mortal  hour. 


COMPOSED    AMONG    THE     RUINS    OF    A 
CASTLE  IN    NORTH   WALES. 

Through  shattered  galleries,  'mid  roofless 

halls,  [tra>/r;d, 

Wandering  with  timid  footstep  oft  be- 
The  stranger  sighs,  nor  scruples  to  upbraid 
Old  Tii.ie,  though  he,  gentlest  among  the 

thralls 
Of  destiny,  upon  these  wounds  hath  laid 
His  lenient  touches,  soft  as  light  that  falls, 
From  the'wan  moon,  upon  the  towers  and 

walls,  [shade. 

Light  deepening  the  profoundest  sleep  of 
Relic  of  kings  !  wreck  of  forgotten  wars, 
To  winds  abandoned  and  the  prying  stars', 
Time  loves  thee!  at   his  call  the  seasons 

twine  [hoar; 

Luxuriant  wreaths  around  thy  forehead 
And,   though  past  pomp  no  changes  can 

restore, 
A  soothing  recompense,  his  gift,  is  thine  ! 


TO  THE  LADY  E.  B.  AND  THE  HON. 
MISS  P. 

Composed  in  the  grounds  of  Plass  Newidd,  near 
Llangollyn,  1824. 

A  STREAM,  to  mingle  with  your  favourite 

Dee, 
Along  the  Vale  of  Meditation  flows;* 
So  styled  by  those  fierce  Britons,  pleased 

to  see 
In  nature's  face  the  expression  of  repose; 

*  Glyn  Myrvr. 


144 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


Or  haply  there  some  pious  hermit  chose 
To  live  and  die,  the  peace  of  heaven  his 

aim;  [owes, 

To    whom    the   wild    sequestered    region 
At  this  late  day,  its  sanctifying  name. 
Glyn    Cafaillgaroch,     in     the    Cambrian 

tongue,  [spot 

In   ours  the  Vale  of  Friendship,   let  this 
Be  named;  where,  faithful  to  a  low-roofed 

cot, 
On  Deva's  banks,  ye  have  abode  so  long  ; 
Sisters  in  love — a  love  allowed  to  climb, 
Even  on  this  earth,  above   the   reach  of 

time! 


TO    THE    TORRENT    AT    THE    DEVIL  S 
BRIDGE,    NORTH   WALES. 

How  art  thou  named  ?     In  search  of  what 
strange  land  [such  force 

From  what  huge  height,  descending?   Can 
Of  waters  issue  from  a  British  source, 
Or  hath  not   Pindus  fed  thee,  where  the 
band  [hand 

Of  patriots  scoop  their  freedom  out,  with 
Desperate  as  thine?  Or,  come  the  in- 
cessant shocks  [throbbing  rocks 
From  that  young  stream,  that  smites  the 
Of  Viamala  ?  There  I  seem  to  stand, 
As  in  life's  morn;  permitted  to  behold, 
From   the  dread  chasm,   woods  climbing 

above  woods 
In  pomp  that  fades  not,  everlasting  snows, 
And  skies  that  ne'er  relinquish  their  repose  : 
Such  power  possess  the  family  of  floods 
Over  the  minds  of  poets,  young  or  old ! 


"  Gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Though  narrow  be  that  old  man's  cares, 

and  near, 
The  poor  old  man  is  greater  than  he  seems  : 
For  he  hath  waking  empire,  wide  as  dreams : 
An  ample  sovereignty  of  eye  and  ear. 
Rich  are  his  walks  with  supernatural  cheer; 
The  region  of  his  inner  spirit  teems 
With  vital  sounds  and  monitory  gleams 
01  high  astonishment  and  pleasing  fear. 
He  the  seven  birds  hath  seen,  that  never 

part.  [rounds, 

Seen  the  Seven  Whistlers  in  their  nightly 
And   counted   them:   and  oftentimes  will 

start —  [hounds, 

For    overhead     are    sweeping    Gabriel's 
Doomed,  with  their  impious  lord,  the  flying 

hart 
To  ^hase  for  ever,  on  aerial  grounds ! 


Wild  Redbreast !  hadst  thou  at  Jemimas' 

lip  [might  say. 

Pecked,    as   at   mine,    thus   boldly,    Love 
A  half- blown  rose  had  tempted  thee  to  sip 
Its  glistening  dews  ;   but  hallowed  is  the 

clay  [is  gray, 

Which  the  muse  warms ;  and  I,  whose  head 
Am  not  unworthy  of  thy  fellowship  ; 
Nor  could  I  let  one  thought — one  motion 

— slip 
That  might  thy  sylvan  confidence  betray. 
For  are  we  not    all    His,  without  whose 

care  [ground  ? 

Vouchsafed,   no    sparrow    falleth    to   the 
Who   gives    His   angels    wrings   to    speed 

through  air,  [profound ; 

And   rolls   the   planets    through   the   blue 
Then  peck  or  perch,  fond  flutterer !   nor 

forbear 
To  trust  a  poet  in  still  musings  bound. 


When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle 
Lay  couched  ; — upon  that  breathless  monu- 
ment, 
On  him,  or  on  his  fearful  bow  unbent, 
Some  wild  bird  oft  might  settle,  and  be- 
guile 
The  rigid  features  of  a  transient  smile, 
Disperse  the  tear,  or  to  the  sigh  give  vent, 
Slackening  the  pains  of  ruthless   banish- 
ment 
From  home  affections,  and  heroic  toil. 
Nor  doubt  that  spiritual  creatures    round 

us  move, 
Griefs  to  allay  that  reason  cannot  heal ; 
And  very  reptiles  have  sufficed  to  prove 
To  fettered  wretchedness,  that  no  Bastille 
Is  deep  enough   to   exclude   the  light  of 

love, 
Though  man  for  brother  man  has  ceased 
to  feel. 


While  Anna's  peers  and  early  playmates 
tread  [marge ; 

In    freedom    mountain    turf    and    river's 
Or  float  with  music  in  the  festal  barge  ; 
Rein  the  proud  steed,  or  through  the  dance 

are  led  ; 
Her  doom  it  is  w  press  a  weary  bed — ■ 
Till  oft  her  guardian  angel,  to  some  charge 
More  urgent  called,  will  stretch  his  wings 
at  large,  [head. 

And  friends  too  rarely  prop   the   languid 
Yet  helped  by  genius — untired  comforter  1 
The  presence  even  of  a  stuffed  owl  for  her 
Can  cheat  the  time  ;  sending  her  fancy  out 
To  ivied  castles  and  to  moonlight  skies, 


miscellaneous  sonnets. 


145 


Though  he  can  neither  stir  a  plume,  nor 

shout,  [eyes. 

Nor  veil,    with   restless  film,    his  staring 


TO   THE    CUCKOO. 

Not  the  whole  warbling  grove  in  concert 
heard  [can  thrill 

When  sunshine  follows  shower,  the  breast 

Like  the  first  summons,  cuckoo  t  of  thy 
bill, 

With  its  twin  notes  inseparably  paired. 

The  captive,  'mid  damp  vaults  unsunned, 
unaired, 

Measuring  the  periods  of  his  lonely  doom, 

That  cry  can  reach;  and  to  the  sick  man's 
room 

Sends  gladness,  by  no  languid  smile  de- 
clared, [searcli 

The    lordly    eagle-race    through-  hostile 

May  perish  ;  time  may  come  when  never 
more 

The  wilderness  shall  hear  the  lion  roar  ; 

But  long  as  cock  shall  crow  from  household 
perch  [thy  wing, 

To  rouse  the  dawn,  soft  gales  shall  speed 

And  thy  erratic  voice  be  faithful  to  the 
spring  ! 

THE  INFANT   M M . 

Unquiet  childhood  here  by  special  grace 
Forgets  her  nature,  opening  like  a  flower 
That  neither  feeds  nor  wastes  its  vital  power 
In  painful  struggles.     Months  each  other 

chase,  [trace 

And  nought  untunes  that  infant's  voice  ;  a 
Of  fretful  temper  sullies  not  her  cheek  ; 
Prompt,  lively,  self-sufficing,  yet  so  meek 
That  one  enrapt  with  gazing  on  her  face, 
(Which  even  the  placid  innocence  of  death 
Could  scarcely  make  more  placid,  heaven 

more  bright,) 
Might  learn  to  picture,  for  the  eye  of  faith, 
The  virgin,  as  she  shone  with  kindred  light ; 
A   nursling  couched   upon    her    mother's 

knee. 
Beneath  some  shady  palm  of  Galilee. 


For  steadfast  hope  the  contract  to  fulfil ; 
Yet  shall  my  blessing  hover  o'er  thee  still, 
Embodied  in  the  music  of  this  lay, 
Breathed  forth  beside  the  peaceful  moun- 
tain stream*  [mother's  ear 
Whose    murmur    soothed     thy     languid 
After  her  throes,  this  stream  of  name  more 

dear 
Since  thou  dost  hear  it, — a  memorial  theme 
For  others  ;  for  thy  future  self  a  spell 
To  summon  fancies  out  of  time's  dark  cell. 


TO   ROTHA   Q . 

Rotwa,  my  spiritual  child !  this  head  was 
gray 

When  at  the  sacred  font  for  thee  I  stood  ; 

Pledged  till  thou  reach  the  verge  of  woman- 
hood, 

And  shalt  become  thy  own  sufficient  stay  : 

Too  late,  I  feel,  sweet  orphan  !  was  the  day 


Such  age  how  beautiful !  O  lady  bright, 
Whose  mortal  lineaments  seem  all  refined 
By  favouring  nature  and  a  saintly  mind 
To  something  purer  and  more  exquisite 
Than    flesh    and    blood ;    whene'er    thou 
meet'st  my  sight,  [cheek, 

When  I  behold  thy  blanched  unwithered 
Thy  temples  fringed  with  locks  of  gleaming 
white,  [meek, 

And  head  that  droops  because  the  soul  is 
Thee  with  the  welcome  snowdrop  I  com- 
pare, [that  climb 
That  child  of  winter,  prompting  thoughts 
From  desolation  towards  the  genial  prime  ; 
Or  with  the  moon  conquering  earth's 
misty  air,  [light 
And  filling  more  and  more  with  crystal 
As  pensive  evening  deepens  into  night. 


In  my  mind's  eye  a  temple,  like  a  cloud 
Slowly  surmounting  some  invidious  hill, 
Rose  out  of   darkness  :    the  bright  work 

stood  still,  [proud, 

And  might  of  its  own  beauty  have  been 
But  it    was    fashioned   and   to  God  was 

vowed 
By  virtues  that  diffused,  in  every  part, 
Spirit  divine  through  forms  of  human  art : 
Faith  had  her  arch— her  arch  when  winds 

blow  loud, 
Into  the  consciousness  of  safety  thrilled  ; 
And  Love  her  towers  of  dread  foundation 

laid  [sPire 

Under  the  grave  of  things  ;  Hope  had  her 
Star-high,  and  pointing  still  to  something 

higher ;  [said, 

Trembling  I  gazed,  but  heard  a  voice— it 
Hell  gates  are  powerless  phantoms  when 

we  build. 


•The  river  Rotha,  that  flows  into  Windermeri 
from  the  lakes  of  Grasmerc  and  Rydal. 


146 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


CONCLUSION. 
TO  . 

If  these  brief  records,  by  the  Muses'  art 
Produced  as  lonely  nature  or  the  strife 
That  animates  the  scenes  of  public  life 
Inspired,  may  in  thy  leisure  claim  a  part  ; 
And  if  these  transcripts  of  the  private  heart 
Have  gained  a  sanction  from  thy  falling 

tears, 
Then  I  repent  not  :  but  my  soul  hath  fears 


Breathed  from  eternity  ;  for  as  a  dart 
Cleaves  the  blank  air,  life  flies  :  now  every 

day 
Is  but  a  glimmering    spoke  in  the   swift 

wheel 
Of  the  revolving  week.     Away,  away, 
All  fitful  cares,  all  transitory  zeal ; 
So  timely  grace  the  immortal  wing  may 

heal, 
And  honour  rest  upon  the  senseless  clay. 


UmaxmU  of  n  Cowr  ire  Scoflanfr, 

1803. 


DEPARTURE  FROM  THE  VALE  OF 
GRASMERE. 

August  1803. 

The  gentlest  shade  that  walked  Elysian 

plains 
Might  sometimes  covet  dissoluble  chains  ; 
Even  for  the  tenants  of  the  zone  that  lies 
Beyond  the  stars,  celestial  paradise, 
Methinks  'twould  heighten  joy,  to  overleap 
At  will  the  crystal  battlements,  and  peep 
Into  some  other  region,  though  less  fair, 
To  see  how  things  are  made  and  managed 

there  ;  [bold 

Change  for  the  worse  might  please,  incursion 
Into  the  tracts  of  darkness  and  of  cold  ; 
O'er  Limbo  lake  with  aery  flight  to  steer, 
And  on  the  verge  of  Chaos  hang  in  fear. 
Such  animation  often  do  I  find,        [mind, 
Power  in  my  breast,  wings  growing  in  my 
Then,  when  some  rock  or  hill  is  overpast, 
Perchance  without  one  look  behind  me  cast, 
Some  barrier  with  which  nature,   from  the 

birth  [earth. 

Of  things,  has  fenced  this  fairest  spot  on 
Oh,  pleasant  transit,  Grasmere  !  to  resign 
Such  happy  fields,  abodes  so  calm  as  thine  ; 
Not  like  an  outcast  with  himself  at  strife  ; 
The  slave  of  business,  time,  or  care  for  life. 
But  moved  by  choice  ;  or,  if  constrained  in 

part, 
Yet  still  with  nature's  freedom  at  the  heart  ; 
To  cull  contentment  upon  wildest  shores, 
And  luxuries  extract  from  bleakest  moors  ; 
With  prompt  embrace  all  beauty  to  infold, 
And  having  rights  in  all  that  we  behold. 


Then  why  these  lingering  steps?  A  bright 

adieu, 
For  a  brief  absence,  proves  that  love  is  true; 
Ne'er  can  the  way  be  irksome  or  forlorn, 
That  winds  into  itself,  for  sweet  return. 


TO  THE  SONS  OF  BURNS, 

AFTER  VISITING  THE  GRAVE   OF  THEIR 
FATHER. 

"The  poet's  grave  is  in  a  corner  of  the  church- 
yard. We  looked  at  it  with  melancholy  and 
painful  reflections,  repeating  to  each  other  his 
own  verses,  '  Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment 
clear,'  etc' — Extract  from  the  Journal  of 
tny  Fellow-  Traveller. 

'Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns, 

I  sought  the  untimely  grave  of  Burns  ; 

Sons  of  the  bard,  my  heart  still  mourns 

With  sorrow  true  ; 
And  more  would  grieve,  but  that  it  turns 

Trembling  to  you  ! 

Through  twilight  shades  of  good  and  ill 

Ye  now  are  panting  up  life's  hill, 

And  more  than  common  strength  and  skill 

Must  ye  display, 
If  ye  would  give  the  better  will 

Its  lawful  sway. 

Hath  nature  strung  your  nerves  to  bear 
Intemperance  with  less  harm,  beware  ! 
But  if  the  poet's  wit  ye  share, 

Like  him  can  speed 
The  social  hour — for  tenfold  care 

There  will  be  need. 


MEMORIAL*  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


Hi 


Even  honest  men  delight  will  take 
To  spare  your  failings  for  his  sake, 
Will  flatter  you, — and  fool  and  rake 

Your  steps  pursue  ; 
And  of  your  father's  name  will  make 

A  snare  for  you. 

Far  from  their  noisy  haunts  retire, 
And  add  your  voices  to  the  quire 
That  sanctify  the  cottage  fire 

With  service  meet  ; 
There  seek  the  genius  of  your  sire, 

His  spirit  greet ; 

Or  where,  'mid  "lonely  heights  and  hows, 
He  paid  to  nature  tuneful  vows  ; 
Or  wiped  his  honourable  brows 

Bedewed  with  toil, 
While  reapers  strove,  or  busy  ploughs 

Upturned  the  soil  ; 

His  judgment  with  benignant  ray 
Shall  guide,  his  fancy  cheer,  your  way  ; 
But  ne'er  to  a  seductive  lay 

Let  faith  be  given  ; 
Nor  deem  that  "light  which  leads  astray, 

Is  light  from  heaven." 

Let  no  mean  hope  your  souls  enslave  : 
Be  independent,  generous,  brave  ; 
Your  father  such  example  gave, 

And  such  revere  : 
But  be  admonished  by  his  grave, 

And  think,  and  fear  ! 


ELLEN  IRWIN,  OR  THE  BRAES 
OF  KIRTLE. 

Fair  Ellen  Irwin,  when  she  sate 
Upon  the  braes  of  Kirtle,* 
Was  lovely  as  a  Grecian  maid 
Adorned  with  wreaths  of  myrtle. 
Young  Adam  Bruce  beside  her  lay  ; 
And  there  did  they  beguile  the  day 
With  love  and  gentle  speeches, 
Beneath  the  budding  beeches. 

From  many  knights  and  many  squires 
The  Bruce  had  been  selected  ; 
And  Gordon,  fairest  of  them  all, 
By  Ellen  was  rejected. 


*  The  Kirtle  is  a  river  in  the  southern  part 
of  Scotland,  on  whose  banks  the  events  here  re- 
lated took  place. 


Sad  tidings  to  that  noble  youth  ! 
For  it  may  be  proclaimed  with  truth, 
If  Bruce  hath  loved  sincerely, 
That  Gordon  loves  as  dearly. 

But  what  is  Gordon's  beauteous  face, 
And  what  are  Gordon  s  crosses, 
To  them  who  sit  by  Kirtle's  braes 
Upon  the  verdant  mosses? 
Alas  that  ever  he  was  born  ! 
The  Gordon,  couched  behind  a  thorn, 
Sees  them  and  their  caressing; 
Beholds  them  blest  and  blessing. 

Proud  Gordon  cannot  bear  the  thoughts 
That  through  his  brain  are  travelling, — 
And,  starting  up,  to  Brace's  heart 
He  launched  a  deadly  javelin  ! 
Fair  Ellen  saw  it  when  it  came, 
And,  stepping  forth  to  meet  the  same, 
Did  with  her  body  cover 
The  youth,  her  chosen  lover. 

And,  falling  into  Brace's  arms, 
Thus  died  the  beauteous  Ellen, 
Thus,  from  the  heart  of  her  true-love, 
The  mortal  spear  repelling. 
And  Bruce,  as  soon  as  he  had  slain 
The  Gordon,  sailed  away  to  Spain  ; 
And  fought  with  rage  incessant 
Against  the  Moorish  crescent. 

But  many  days,  and  many  months, 
And  many  years  ensuing, 
This  wretched  knight  did  vainly  seek 
The  death  that  he  was  wooing: 
So  coming  his  last  help  to  crave, 
Heart-broken,  upon  Ellen's  grave 
His  body  he  extended, 
And  there  his  sorrow  ended. 

Now  ye,  who  willingly  have  heard 
The  tale  I  have  been  telling, 
May  in  Kirkonnel  churchyard  view 
The  grave  of  lovely  Ellen  : 
By  Ellen's  side  the  Bruce  is  laid  ; 
And,  for  the  stone  upon  its  head. 
May  no  rude  hand  deface  it, 
And  its  forlorn  Hie  JACET  ! 


TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL. 

(AT   INVERSNAID,    UPON   LOCH   LOMOND.) 

Sweet  Highland  girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower! 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 


148 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  TN  SCOTLAND. 


And  these  gray  rocks  ;  this  household  lawn 

These  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn  ; 

This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake  ; 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  ; 

In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

Yet,  dream  and  vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  > 
For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer. 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts,  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee,  who  art  so  beautiful? 
Oh,  happy  pleasure!  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality : 
Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea  :  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father,  anything  to  thee  ! 


Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompense. 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  girl  !  from  thee  to  part  , 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 
And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all ! 


GLEN-ALMAIN,  OR  THE  NARROW 
GLEN. 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 
Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  Narrow  glen  ; 
In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 
But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one  : 
He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

I  Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death  ; 

I  And  should,  methinks,  when  all  was  past, 
Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 
Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 
As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ;  [wild 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were 
And  every  thing  unreconciled  ; 
In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 
For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 
But  this  is  calm  ;  there  cannot  be 
A  more  entire  tranquillity. 

Does  then  the  bard  sleep  here  indeed? 
Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ! 
What  matters  it? — I  blame  them  not 
Whose  fancy  in  this  lonely  spot 
Was  moved  ;  and  in  such  way  expressed 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 
A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell 
Would  break  the  silence  of  this  dell  : 
It  is  not  quiet ;  is  not  ease  ; 
But  something  deeper  far  than  these  • 
The  separation  that  is  here 
Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 
Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead  : 
And,  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 
That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  ! 
Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 


MEMORIALS  OF  A   TOUR  AV  SCOTLAND. 


11!) 


STEPPING  WESTWARD. 

[While  my  fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walking 
by  the  side  of  Loch  Katrine,  one  fine  even- 
ing after  sunset,  in  our  road  to  a  hut  where, 
in  the  course  of  our  tour,  we  had  been  hos- 
pitably entertained  some  weeks  before,  we 
met,  in  one  of  the  loneliest  parts  of  that  soli- 
tary region,  two  well-dressed  women,  one  of 
whom  said  to  us,  by  way  of  greeting,  "  What! 
you  are  stepping  westward?"] 

"  What!  you  are  stepping  westward f'— 
Twould  be  a  wi/dish  destiny,         L"  Yca-" 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  chance  : 
Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  skv  to  lead  him  on  ? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold  ; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind  of  heavenly  de^iny  ;    . 

I  liked  the  greeting  ;  'twas  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  or  bound  ; 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake : 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy  : 

Its  power  was  felt  ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  inwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Mone  she  cuts,  and  binds  the  gram, 
\nd  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
Oh,  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 


Such  thrilling  voice  was  never  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-ofl  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ! 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ;— 
I  listened — motionless  and  still ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


ADDRESS  TO  KILCHURN  CASTLE 
UPON  LOCH  AWE. 

"  From  the  top  of  the  hiii  a  most  impressive 
scene  opened  upon  our  view,— a  ruined  castle 
on  an  island  at  some  distance  from  ive  shore, 
backed  by  a  cove  of  the  mountain  Cruachan, 
down  which  came  a  foaming  stream.  The 
castle  occupied  every  foot  of  the  island  that 
was  visible  to  us,  appearing  to  rise  out  of  the 
water,— mists  rested  upon  the  mountain  side, 
with  spots  of  sunshine  .  there  was  a  mild 
desolation  in  the  low-grounds,  a  solemn  gran- 
deur in  the  mountains,  and  the  castle  was 
wild,  yet  stately — not  dismantled  of  turrets 
—nor  the  walls  broken  down,  though  obvi- 
ously a  ruin."— Extract  from  the  Journal  oj 
my  Companion. 

Child  of  loud-throated  war !  the  moun- 
tain stream 
Roars  in  thy  hearing  ;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 
Is  come,  and  thou  art  silent  in  thy  age  ; 
Save  when  the  winds  sweep  by  and  sounds 

are  caught 
Ambiguous,  neither  wholly  thine  nor  theirs. 
Oh  !  there  is  life  that  breathes  not :  powers 

there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  tc 
perceive,  [care 

No  soul  to  dream  of.   What  art  thou,  from 
Cast  oft— abandoned  by  thy  rugged  sire, 
Nor  by  soft  peace  adopted  ;  though,  in  place 
And  in  dimension,  such  that  thou   mights! 
seem 


ir,o 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


But  a  mere  iootstool  to  yon  sovereign  lord, 
Hugh  Cruachan,  (a  thing  that  meaner  hills 
Might  crush,  nor  know  that  it  had  suffered 

harm  ;) 
Vet  he,  not  loth,  in  favour  of  thy  claims 
To  reverence  suspends  his  own  ;  submitting 
All  that  the  God  of  nature  hath  conferred, 
All  that  he  has  in  common  with  the  stars, 
To  the  memorial  majesty  of  time 
Impersonated  in  thy  calm  decay  ! 

Take,  then,  thy  seat,  vicegerent  unreproved ! 
Now,  while  a  farewell  gleam  of  evening  light 
Is  fondly  lingering  on  thy  shattered  front, 
Do  thou,  in  turn,  be  paramount  ;  and  rule 
Over  the  pomp  and  beauty  of  a  scene 
Whose    mountains,    torrents,     lake,    and 

woods,  unite  [joined, 

To  pay  thee  homage  ;  and  with  these  are 
In  willing  admiration  and  respect, 
Two  hearts,  which  in  thy  presence  might 

be  called  [power, 

Youthful  as  spring.  Shade  of  departed 
Skeleton  of  unfleshed  humanity,  [call 

The  chronicle  were  welcome  that  should 
Into  the  compass  of  distinct  regard 
The  toils  and  struggles  of  thy  infancy  ! 
Yon  foaming  fl&ud  seems  motionless  as  ice  ; 
Its  dizzy -turbulence  eludes  the  eye, 
Frozen  by  distance  •  so,  majestic  pile, 
To  the  perception  of  this  age,  appear 
Thy  fierce  beginnings,  softened  and  subdued 
And  quieted  in  character  ;  the  strife, 
The  pride,  the  fury  uncontrollable, 
Lost  on  the  aerial  heights  of  the  Crusades  !* 


ROB  ROY'S  GRAVE. 

The  history  of  Rob  Roy  is  sufficiently  known  ; 
his  grave  is  near  the  head  of  Loch  Katrine,  in 
one  of  those  small  pinfold-like  burial-grounds 
of  neglected  and  desolate  appearance,  which 
the  traveller  meets  with  in  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland. 

A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood, 
The  English  ballad-singer's  joy  ! 
And  Scotland  has  a  thief  as  good, 
An  outlaw  of  as  daring  mood ; 
She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy  ! 
Then  clear  the  weeds  from  off  his  grave, 
And  let  us  chant  a  passing  stave 
In  honour  of  that  hero  brave  ! 


*  The  tradition  is  that  the  castle  was  built  by 
a  lady  during  the  absence  of  her  lord  in  Pales- 
tine. 


Heaven  gave  Rob  Roy  a  dauntless  heart 
And  wondrous  length  and  strength  of  arm : 
Nor  craved  he  more  to  quell  his  foes, 
Or  keep  his  friends  from  harm. 

Yet  was  Rob  Roy  as  wise  as  brave  ; 
Forgive  me  if  the  phrase  be  strong  ; — 
A  poet  worthy  of  Rob  Roy 
Must  scorn  a  timid  song. 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  wise  as  brave  ; 
As  wise  in  thought  as  bold  in  deed  : 
For  in  the  principles  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 

Said  generous  Rob,  "What  need  of  books? 
Burn  all  the  statutes  and  their  shelves  : 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  kind  ; 
And  worse,  against  ourselves. 

' '  We  have  a  passion,  make  a  law, 
Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control  ! 
And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  ot  soul. 

"And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 
Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few  : 
These  find  I  graven  on  my  heart : 
That  tells  me  what  to  do. 

"  The  creatures  see  of  flood  and  field, 
And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind  ! 
With  them  no  strife  can  last ;  they  live 
In  peace,  and  peace  of  mind. 

' '  For  why  ?— because  the  good  old  rule 
Sufficeth  them,  the  simple  plan, 
That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

"A  lesson  that  is  quickly  learned, 
A  signal  this  which  all  can  see  ! 
Thus  nothing  here  provokes  the  strong 
To  wanton  cruelty. 

' '  All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked  ; 
He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires  ; 
While  to  the  measure  of  his  might 
Each  fashions  his  desires. 

'  All  kinds,  and  creatures,  stand  and  fall 
By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit : 
'Tis  God's  appointment  who  must  sway 
And  who  is  to  submit. 

"Since,  then,  the  rule  of  right  is  plain, 
And  longest  life  is  but  a  day  ; 
To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights, 
I'll  take  the  shortest  way." 


' 


MEMORIALS  nr  .1  mm  w  Scotland. 


151 


•\nd  thus  among  these-  rocks  he  lived, 
I  hrough  summer  heal  and  winter  snow  : 
The  eagle,  he  was  lord  above, 
And  Rob  was  lord  below. 

So  was  it — Tt'.v/A/,  at  least,  have  been 
Rut  through  untowardness  of  fate  : 
For  polity  was  then  too  strong  ; 
He  came  an  age  too  late. 

Or  shall  we  sav  an  age  too  soon  ? 
For,  were  the  bold  man  living  now. 
How  might  he  flourish  in  his  pride, 
With  buds  on  every  bough  ! 

Then  rents  and  factors,  rights  of  cha 
Sheriffs,  anil  lairds  and  their  domains, 
Would  all  have  seemed  but  paltry  things, 
Not  worth  a  moment's  pains. 

Rob  Roy  had  never  lingered  here, 
To  these  few  meagre  vales  confined  ; 
But  thought  how  wide  the  world,  the  times 
How  fairly  to  his  mind  ! 

And  to  his  sword  he  would  have  said, 
•  ■  Do  thou  my  sovereign  will  enact 
From  land  to  land  through  half  the  earth  ! 
Judge  thou  of  law  and  fact  ! 

"  'Tis  fit  that  we  should  do  our  part  ; 
Becoming,  that  mankind  should  learn 
That  we  are  not  to  be  surpassed 
In  fatherly  concern. 

"  Of  old  things  all  are  over  old, 
Of  good  things  none  are  good  enough  : — 
We'll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stuff. 

"  I,  too,  will  have  my  kings  that  take 
From  me  the  sign  of  life  and  death  : 
Kingdoms  shall  shift  about,  like  clouds, 
Obedient  to  my  breath.  * 

And,  if  the  word  had  been  fulfilled, 
As  might  have  been,  then,  thought  of  joy  ! 
France  would  have  had  her  present  boast  ; 
And  we  our  own  Rob  Roy  ! 

Oh  !  say  not  so  ;  compare  them  not ; 
I  wcnld  KOt  wrong  thee,  champion  brave  ! 
Would  wrong  thee  nowhere  ;  least  of  all 
Here  standing  by  thy  grave. 

For  thou,  although  with  some  wild  thoughts, 
Wild  chieftain  of  a  savage  clan  ! 
}  'adst  this  to  boast  of ;  thou  didst  love 
The  hherty  of  man. 


And,  had  it  been  thy  lot  to  live 
With  us  who  now  behold  the  light, 
Thou  wonldst  have  nobly  stirred  thyself, 
And  battled  for  the  right. 

For  thou  wert  still  the  poor  man's  stay, 
The  poor   man's   heart,    the    poor   man's 

hand  ; 
And  all  the  oppressed,  who  wanted  strength, 

Had  thine  at  their  command. 

Bear  witness  many  a  pensive  sigh 
Of  thoughtful  herdsman  when  he  strays 
Alone  upon  Loch  Veol's  heights, 
And  by  Loch  Lomond's  braes  ! 

And,  far  and  near,  through  vale  and  hill, 
Are  faces  that  attest  the  same  ; 
The  proud  heart  flashing  through  the  eyes, 
At  sound  of  Rob  Roy's  name. 


COMPOSED   AT 


CASTLE. 


Degenerate  Douglas  !  oh,  the  unworthy 

lord  !  [please, 

Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far 
And  love  of  havoc  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him)  that  he  could  send  forth 

word, 
To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 
A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees, 
Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like 

these, 
Beggared    and    outraged  ! — Many   hearts 

deplored 
The  fate  of  those  old  trees  ;  and  oft  with 

pain  [gaze 

The  traveller,  at  this  day,   will  stop  and 
On  wrongs,  which  nature  scarcely  seems  to 

heed  : 
For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and 

bays,  [Tweed, 

And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 


YARROW  UNVISITED. 

[See  the  various  poems  the  scene  of  which  is 
laid  upon  the  banks  of  the  Yarrow  :  in  par- 
ticular, the  exquisite  ballad  of  Hamilton,  be- 
ginning 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  !"] 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled  ; 

N 


LS2 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford,  _ 
Then  said  my  "winsome  marrow," 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own  ; 
Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  heroes  teed, 
Hares  couch,  ^nd  v-.Voiis  burrow  ! 
But  we  will  downwards  with  the  Tweed, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"  There's  Gala  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 
And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
There's  pleasant  Teviotdale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 
As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 
Strange  words   they  seemed  of  slight   and 
My  true  love  sighed  for  sorrow  :       [scorn  : 
And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"Oh!    green,"    said    I,    "are    Yarrow's 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  !  [holms, 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock,* 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  strath, 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

' '  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go, 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it  : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 
Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it? 


*  See  Hamilton's  ballad,  as  above. 


The  treasured  dreams  of  times  lcng  past, 
We'll  keep  them,  winsome  marrow  ! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  tis  'fair, 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

"  If  care,  with  freezing  years  should  come, 
And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 
Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 
Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 
■JT./ilrn^jthe  us  in  our  sorrow, 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 
The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !" 


IN  THE  PASS  OF  KILLICRANK.IE, 

AN     INVASION     BEING     EXPECTED, 
OCTOBER    1803. 

Six  thousand  veterans  practised  in  war's 

game, 
Tried  men  at  Killicrankie  were  arrayed 
Against  an  equal  host  that  wore  the  plaid, 
Shepherds  and  herdsmen. — Like  a  whirl- 
wind came  [flame ; 
The  Highlanders,  the  slaughter  spread  like 
And  Garry,  thundering  down  his  mountain 

road, 
Was    stopped,    and    could    not    breathe 

beneath  the  load 
Of  the  dead  bodies. — 'Twas  a  day  of  shame 
For  them  whom  precept  and  the  pedantry 
Of  cold  mechanic  battle  do  enslave. 
Oh,  for  a  single  hour  of  that  Dundee, 
Who  on  that  day  the  word  of  onset  gave  ! 
Like  conquest  would  the  men  of  England 

see ; 
And  her  foes  find  a  like  inglorious  grave. 


THE  MATRON  OF  JEDBURGH  AND 
HER  HUSBAND. 

[At  Jedburgh,  my  companion  and  I  went  into 
private  lodgings  for  a  few  days  ;  and  the  fol- 
lowing verses  were  called  forth  by  the 
character  and  domestic  situation  of  our  hos- 
tess.] 

AGE  !  twine  thy  brows  with   fresh  spring 

flowers, 
And  call  a  train  of  laughing  hours  ; 
And  bid  them  dance  and  bid  them  sing  ; 
And  thou,  too,  mingle  in  the  ring  ! 
Take  to  thy  heart  a  new  delight  ; 
If  not,  make  merry  in  despite 
That  there  is  one  who  scorns  thy  power  :— 
But  dance  !  for  under  Jedburgh  tower. 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  WXTR  JN  SCOTLAND. 


153 


A  matron  dwells,  who  though  she  bears 
Our  mortal  complement  of  years, 
Lives  in  the  light  of  youthful  glee, 
And  she  will  dance  and  sing  with  thee. 

Nay  !  start  not  at  that  figure— there  ! 
Him  who  is  rooted  to  his  chair  ! 
Look  at  him — look  again  !  for  he 
Hath  long  been  of  thy  family. 
With  legs  that  move  not,  if  they  can, 
And  useless  arms,  a  trunk  of  man, 
He  sits,  and  with  a  vacant  eye  ; 
A  sight  to  make  a  stranger  sigh  ! 
Deaf,  drooping,  that  is  now  his  doom  : 
His  world  is  in  this  single  room  ; 
Is  this  a  place  for  mirthful  cheer? 
Can  merrymaking  enter  here  ? 

The  joyous  woman  is  the  mate 
Of  him  in  that  forlorn  estate  ! 
He  breathes  a  subterraneous  damp  ; 
But  bright  as  vesper  shines  her  lamp  ; 
He  is  as  mute  as  Jedburgh  tower  ; 
She  jocund  as  it  was  of  yore, 
With  all  its  bravery  on  ;  in  times 
When  all  alive  with  merry  chimes, 
Upon  a  sun-bright  morn  of  May, 
It  routed  the  vale  to  holiday. 

I  praise  thee,  matron  !  and  thy  due 
Is  praise  ;  heroic  praise,  and  true  <; 
With  admiration  I  behold 
Thy  gladness  unsubdued  and  bold  : 
Thy  looks,  thy  gestures,  all  present 
The  picture  of  a  life  well  spent  : 
This  do  I  see  ;  and  something  more  ; 
A  strength  unthought  of  heretofore  ! 
Delighted  am  I  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  yet  a  higher  joy  partake. 
Our  human  nature  throws  away 
Its  second  twilight,  and  looks  gay  ; 
A  land  of  promise  and  of  pride 
Unfolding,  wide  as  life  is  wide. 

Ah  !  see  her  helpless  charge  !  inclosed 
Within  himself  as  seems,  composed  ; 
To  fear  of  loss,  and  hope  of  gain, 
The  strife  of  happiness  and  pain, 
Utterly  dead  !  yet  in  the  guise 
Of  little  infants,  when  their  eyes 
Begin  to  follow  to  and  fro 
The  persons  that  before  them  go, 
He  tracks  her  motions,  quick  or  slow. 
Her  buoyant  spirit  can  prevail 
Where  common  cheerfulness  would  fail  ; 
She  strikes  upon  him  with  the  heat 
Of  July  suns  :  he  feels  it  sweet ; 
An  animal  delight,  though  dim  ! 
'Tis  all  that  now  remains  for  him  ! 


The  more  I  looked,  I  wondered  more 
And,  while  I  scanned  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
A  moment  gave  me  to  espy 
A  trouble  in  her  strong  black  eye  ; 
A  remnant  of  uneasy  light, 
A  flash  of  something  over  bright  ! 
Nor  long  this  mystery  did  detain 
My  thoughts  ;  she  told  in  pensive  strain 
That  she  had  borne  a  heavy  yoke, 
Been  stricken  by  a  twofold  stroke  ; 
111  health  of  body  ;  and  had  pined 
Beneath  worse  ailments  of  the  mind. 

So  be  it  ! — but  let  praise  ascend 
To  Him  who  is  our  Lord  and  friend  ! 
Who  from  disease  and  suffering 
Hath  called  for  thee  a  second  spring  ; 
Repaid  thee  for  that  sore  distress 
By  no  untimely  joyousness  ; 
Which  makes  of  thine  a  blissful  state  : 
And  cheers  thy  melancholy  mate  ! 


Fly,  some  kind  spirit,  fly  to  Grasmere-dale, 
Say  that  we  come,  and  come  by  this  day's 

light  ;  [height  ; 

Glad  tidings  ! — spread  them  over  field  and 
But  chiefly  let  one  cottage  hear  the  tale  ; 
There  let  a  mystery  of  joy  prevail, 
The  happy  kitten  bound  with  frolic  might, 
And  Rover  whine,  as  at  a  second  sight 
Of  near-approaching  good  that  shall  not 

fail; 
And  from  that  infant's  face  let  joy  appear  ; 
Yea,  let  our  Mary's  one  companion  child, 
That  hath  her  six  weeks'  solitude  beguiled 
With  intimations  manifold  and  dear, 
While  we  have  wandered  over  wood  and 

wild, 
Smile  on  his  mother  now  with  bolder  cheer. 


THE  BLIND  HIGHLAND  BOY. 

A  TALE  TOLD  BY  THE  FIRESIDE,  AFTER 
RETURNING  TO  THE  VALE  OF  GRAS- 
MERE. 

Now  we  are  tired  of  boisterous  joy, 
Have  romped  enough,  my  little  boy  ! 
Jane  hangs  her  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  you  shall  bring  your  stool  and  rest  ; 
This  corner  is  your  own. 

There  !  take  your  seat,  and  let  me  see 
That  you  can  listen  quietly  ; 
And,  as  I  promised,  I  will  tell 
That  strange  adventure  which  befel 
A  poor  blind  Highland  boy. 


154 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


A  Highland  boy  ! — why  call  him  so  ? 
Because,  my  darlings,  ye  must  know, 
In  land  where  many  a  mountain  towers, 
Far  higher  hills  than  these  of  ours  ! 
He  from  his  birth  had  lived. 

He  ne'er  had  seen  one  earthly  sight : 
The  sun,  the  day  ;  the  stars,  the  night ; 
Or  tree,  or  butterfly,  or  flower, 
Or  fish  in  stream,  or  bird  in  bower, 
Or  woman,  man,  or  child. 

And  yet  he  neither  drooped  nor  pined, 
Nor  had  a  melancholy  mind  ; 
For  God  took  pity  on  the  boy, 
And  was  his  friend  ;  and  gave  him  joy 
Of  which  we  nothing  know. 

His  mother,  too,  no  doubt  above 
Her  other  children  him  did  love  : 
For,  was  she  here,  or  was  she  there, 
She  thought  of  him  with  constant  care, 
And  more  than  mother's  love. 

And  proud  she  was  of  heart,  when  clad 
In  crimson  stockings,  tartan  plaid, 
And  bonnet  with  a  feather  gay, 
To  kirk  he  on  the  Sabbath-day 

Went  hand  in  hand  with  her. 

A  dog,  too,  had  he ;  not  for  need, 
But  one  to  play  with  and  to  feed  ; 
Which  would  have  led  him,  if  bereft 
Of  company  or  friends,  and  left 
Without  a  better  guide. 

And  then  the  bagpipes  he  could  blow  ; 
And  thus  from  house  to  house  would  go, 
And  all  were  pleased  to  hear  and  see  ; 
For  none  made  sweeter  melody 

Than  did  the  poor  blind  boy. 

Yet  he  had  many  a  restless  dream  ; 
Both  when  he  heard  the  eagles  scream, 
And  when  he  heard  the  torrents  roar, 
And  heard  the  water  beat  the  shore 

Near  which  their  cottage  stood. 

Beside  a  lake  their  cottage  stood, 
Not  small  like  ours,  a  peaceful  flood  ; 
But  one  of  mighty  size,  and  strange  ; 
That,  rough  or  smooth,  is  full  of  change, 
And  stirring  in  its  bed. 

Kor  to  this  lake  by  night  and  day, 
The  great  sea-water  finds  its  way 
Through  long,  long  windings  of  the  hills  ; 
And  drinks  up  all  the  pretty  rills, 

And  rivers  large  and  strong  : 


Then  hurries  back  the  road  it  came~ 
Returns,  on  errand  still  the  same  ; 
This  did  it  when  the  earth  was  new  ; 
And  this  for  evermore  will  do, 

As  long  as  earth  shall  last. 

And  with  the  coming  of  the  tide, 
Come  boats  and  ships  that  safely  ride, 
Between  the  woods  and  lofty  rocks  ; 
And  to  the  shepherds  with  their  flocks 
Bring  tales  of  distant  lands. 

And  of  those  tales,  whate'er  they  were, 
The  blind  boy  always  had  his  share  ; 
Whether  of  mighty  towns,  or  vales 
With  warmer  suns  and  softer  gales, 
Or  wonders  of  the  deep. 

Yet  more  it  pleased  him,  more  it  stirred, 
When  from  the  water-side  he  heard 
The  shouting,  and  the  jolly  cheers, 
The  bustle  of  the  mariners 

In  stillness  or  in  storm. 

But  what  do  his  desires  avail  ? 
For  he  must  never  handle  sail ; 
Nor  mount  the  mast,  nor  row,  nor  float 
In  sailor's  ship,  or  fisher's  boa.f- 
Upon  the  rocking  waves. 

His  mother  often  thought,  and  said, 
What  sin  would  be  upon  her  head 
If  she  should  suffer  this.    "  My  son, 
Whate'er  you  do,  leave  this  undone  ; 
The  danger  is  so  great." 

Thus  lived  he  by  Loch  Leven's  side, 
Still  sounding  with  the  sounding  tide, 
And  heard  the  billows  leap  and  dance, 
Without  a  shadow  of  mischance, 
Till  he  was  ten  years  old. 

When  one  day  (and  now  mark  me  well, 
Ye  soon  shall  know  how  this  befel) 
He  in  a  vessel  of  his  own, 
On  the  swift  flood  is  hurrying  down 
Towards  the  mighty  sea. 

In  such  a  vessel  never  more 
May  human  creature  leave  the  shore  ! 
If  this  or  that  way  he  should  stir, 
Woe  to  the  poor  blind  mariner  ! 

For  death  will  be  his  doom. 

But  say  what  bears  him  ? — Ye  have  seen 
The  Indian's  bow,  his  arrows  keen, 
Rare  beasts,  and  birds  with  plumage  bright; 
Gifts  which,  for  wonder  or  delight, 
Are  brought  in  ships  from  far. 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  JiV  SCOTLAND. 


15$ 


Such  gifts  had  those  seafaring  men 
Spread  round  that  haven  in  the  glen ; 
Each  hut,  perchance,  might  have  its  own, 
And  to  the  boy  they  all  were  known  ; 
He  knew  and  prized  them  all. 

The  rarest  was  a  turtle  shell 

Which  he,  poor  child,  had  studied  well  ; 

A  shell  of  ample  size,  and  light 

As  the  pearly  car  of  Amphitrite, 

That  sportive  dolphins  drew. 

And,  as  a  coracle  that  braves 
On  Vaga's  breast  the  fretful  waves, 
This  shell  upon  the  deep  would  swim, 
And  gaily  lift  its  fearless  brim 
Above  the  tossing  surge. 

And  this  the  little  blind  boy  knew  : 
And  he  a  story  strange,  yet  true, 
Had  heard,  how  in  a  shell  like  this 
An  English  boy,  oh,  thought  of  bliss  ! 

Had  stoutly  launched  from  shore  ; 

Launched  from  the  margin  of  a  bay 
Among  the  Indian  isles,  where  lay 
His  father's  ship,  and  had  sailed  far, 
To  join  that  gallant  ship  of  war, 
In  his  delightful  shell. 

Our  Highland  boy  oft  visited 
The  house  which  held  this  prize  ;  and,  led 
By  choice  or  chance,  did  thither  come 
One  day  when  no  one  was  at  home, 
And  found  the  door  unbarred. 

While  there  he  sate,  alone  and  blind, 
That  story  flashed  upon  his  mind  ; — 
A  bold  thought  roused  him,  and  he  took 
The  shell  from  out  its  secret  nook, 
And  bore  it  on  his  head. 

He  launched  his  vessel— and  in  pride 
Of  spirit,  from  Loch  Leven's  side, 
Stepped  into  it — his  thoughts  all  free 
As  the  light  breezes  that  with  glee 

Sang  through  the  adventurer's  hair. 

A  while  he  stood  upon  his  feet  ; 
He  felt  the  motion — took  his  seat  ; 
Still  better  pleased  as  more  and  more 
The  tide  retreated  from  the  shore, 

And  sucked  and  sucked  him  in. 

And  there  he  is  in  face  of  heaven  ! 
How  rapidly  the  child  is  driven  ! 
The  fourth  part  of  a  mile  I  ween 
He  thus  had  gone,  ere  he  was  seen 
By  any  human  eye. 


But  when  he  was  first  seen,  oh,  me, 
What  shrieking  and  what  misery  ! 
For  many  saw  ;  among  the  rest 
His  mother,  she  who  loved  him  best, 
She  saw  her  poor  blind  boy. 

But  for  the  child,  the  sightless  boy, 
It  is  the  triumph  of  his  joy  1 
The  bravest  traveller  in  balloon, 
Mounting  as  if  to  reach  the  moon, 
Was  never  half  so  blessed. 

And  let  him,  let  him  go  his  way, 
Alone,  and  innocent,  and  gay  ! 
For,  if  good  angels  love  to  wait 
On  the  forlorn  unfortunate, 

This  child  will  take  no  harm. 

But  now  the  passionate  lament, 
Which  from  the  crowd  on  shore  was  sent, 
The  cries  which  broke  from  old  and  yoimt 
In  Gaelic,  or  the  English  tongue, 
Are  stifled— all  is  still. 

And  quickly  with  a  silent  crew 
A  boat  is  ready  to  pursue  ; 
And  from  the  shore  their  course  they  take, 
And  swiftly  down  the  running  lake 
They  follow  the  blind  boy. 

But  soon  they  move  with  softer  pace  ; 
So  have  ye  seen  the  fowler  chase 
On  Grasmere's  clear  unruffled  breast 
A  youngling  of  the  wild-duck's  nest 
With  deftly-lifted  oar. 

Or  as  the  wily  sailors  crept 
To  seize  (while  on  the  deep  it  slept) 
The  hapless  creature  which  did  dwell 
Erewhile  within  the  dancing  shell, 
They  steal  upon  their  prey. 

With  sound  the  least  that  r  .  1  be  made 
They  follow,  more  and  more  afraid, 
More  cautious  as  they  draw  more  near 
But  in  his  darkness  he  can  hear, 
And  guesses  their  intent. 

"  Lei-gha— Lei-gha '"— then  did  he  cry, 
"  Lei-gha— Lei-gha  "—most  eagerly  ; 
Thus  did  he  cry,  and  thus  did  pray, 
And  what  he  meant  was,  "  Keep  away, 
And  leave  me  to  myself  !" 

j  Alas  !  and  when  he  felt  their  hands— 
I  You've  often  heard  of  magic  wands, 
I  That  with  a  motion  overthrow 
A  palace  of  the  proudest  show, 
Or  melt  it  into  air, 


156 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


So  all  his  dreams,  that  inward  light 
With  which  his  soul  had  shone  so  bright, 
All  vanished  ; — 'twas  a  heartfelt  cross 
To  him,  a  heavy,  bitter  loss, 
As  he  had  ever  known. 

But  hark  !  a  gratulating  voice 
With  which  the  very  hills  rejoice  : 
'Tis  from  the  crowd,  who  tremblingly 
Had  watched  the  event,  and  now  can  see 
That  he  is  safe  at  last. 

And  then,  when  he  was  brought  to  land, 
Full  sure  they  were  a  happy  band, 
Which  gathering  round  did  on  the  banks 
Of  that  great  water  give  God  thanks, 
And  welcomed  the  poor  child. 

And  in  the  general  joy  of  heart 
The  blind  boy's  little  dog  took  part ; 
He  leapt  about,  and  oft  did  kiss 
His  master's  hands  in  sign  of  bliss, 
With  sound  like  lamentation. 


But  most  of  all,  his  mother  dear, 
She  who  had  fainted  with  her  fear, 
Rejoiced  when  waking  she  espies 
The  child  ;  when  she  can  trust  her  eyes  ; 
And  touches  the  blind  boy. 

She  led  him  home,  and  wept  amain, 
When  he  was  in  the  house  again  : 
Tears  flowed  in  torrents  from  her  eyes  ; 
She  could  not  blame  him,  or  chastise  : 
She  was  too  happy  far. 

Thus,  after  he  had  fondly  braved 
The  perilous  deep,  the  boy  was  saved  ; 
And,  though  his  fancies  had  been  wild, 
Yet  he  was  pleased  and  reconciled 
To  live  in  peace  on  shore. 

And  in  the  lonely  Highland  dell 
Still  do  they  keep  the  turtle  shell  ; 
And  long  the  story  will  repeat 
Of  the  blind  boy's  adventurous  feat, 
And  how  he  was  preserved.* 


Umorials  0f  a  four  in  Swrilanb. 

1814. 


THE  BROWNIE'S  CELL. 

[Suggested  by  a  beautiful  ruin  upon  one  of  the 
islands  of  Loch  Lomond,  a  place  chosen  for 
the  retreat j)f  a  solitary  individual  from  whom 
this  habitation  acquired  its  name.] 

To  barren  heath  and  quaking  fen, 

Or  depth  of  labyrinthine  glen  ; 

Or  into  trackless  forest  set 

With  trees,  whose  lofty  umbrage  met  ; 

World-wearied  men  withdrew  of  yore, — 

(Penance  their  trust,  and  prayer  their  store;) 

And  in  the  wilderness  were  bound 

To  such  apartments  as  they  found  ; 

Or  with  a  new  ambition  raised  ; 

That  God  might  suitably  be  praised. 

High  lodged  the  warrior,  like  a  bird  of 

prey  ; 
Or  where  broad  waters  round  him  lay  ; 
But  this  wild  ruin  is  no  ghost 
Of  his  devices — buried,  lost  ! 
Within  this  little  lonely  isle 
There  stood  a  consecrated  pile  ; 


Where  tapers  burned,  and  mass  was  sung, 
For  them  whose  timid  spirits  clung 
To  mortal  succour,  though  the  tomb 
Had  fixed,  for  ever  fixed,  their  doom  ! 

Upon  those  servants  of  another  world 
When    maddening  power   her  bolts   had 

hurled, 
Their  habitation  shook  ; — it  fell, 
And  perished — save  one  narrow  cell  ; 
Whither,  at  length,  a  wretch  retired  : 
Who  neither  grovelled  nor  aspired  : 
He,  struggling  in  the  net  of  pride, 
The  future  scorned,  the  past  defied  ; 


*  It  is  recorded  in  Dampier's  Voyages,  that  a 
boy,  the  son  of  a  captain  of  a  man-of-war, 
seated  himself  in  a  turtle  shell,  and  floated  in  it 
from  the  shore  to  his  father's  ship,  which  lay  at 
anchor  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile.  In  defe- 
rence to  the  opinion  of  a  friend,  I  have  substi- 
tuted such  a  shell  for  the  less  elegant  vessel  in 
which  my  blind  voyager  did  actually  intrust 
himself  to  the  dangerous  current  of  Loch  Leven, 
as  was  related  to  me  by  an  eye-witness. 


imWTtTALFi  OF  A  TOUR  IX  SCOTLAND. 


K.7 


Still  tempering  from  the  unguilty  forge 
( »i  vain  conceit,  an  iron  scourge  I 

Proud  remnant  was  he  of  a  fearless  race, 
Who  stood  and  flourished  lace  to  face 
With  their  perennial  hills  ; — but  crime 
Hastening  the  stern  decrees  of  time. 
Brought  low  a  power,  which  from  its  home 
Hurst  when  repose  grew  wearisome  ; 
And  taking  impulse  from  the  sword, 
And  mocking  its  own  plighted  word, 
Had  found,  in  ravage  widely  dealt 
Its  warfare's  bourne,  its  travel's  belt ! 

All,  all  were  dispossessed,  save  him  whose 

smile 
Shot  lightning  through  this  lonely  isle  ! 
No  right  had  he  but  what  he  made 
To  this  small  spot,  his  leafy  shade  ; 
But  the  ground  lay  within  that  ring 
To  which  he  only  dared  to  cling  ; 
Renouncing  here,  as  worse  than  dead, 
The  craven  few  who  bowed  the  head 
Beneath  the  change,  who  heard  a  claim 
How  loud  !  yet  lived  in  peace  with  shame. 

From  year  to  year  this  shaggy  mortal  went 
(So  seemed  it)  down  a  strange  descent  ; 
Till  they,  who  saw  his  outward  frame, 
Fixed  on  him  an  unhallowed  name  ; 
Him — free  from  all  malicious  taint, 
And  guiding,  like  the  Patmos  saint, 
A  pen  unwearied — to  indite, 
In  his  lone  isle,  the  dreams  of  night  ; 
Impassioned  dreams,  that  strove  to  span 
The  faded  glories  of  his  clan  ! 

Suns  that  through  blood  their  western  har- 
bour sought, 
And  stars  that  in  their  courses  fought, — 
Towers  rent,  winds  combating  with  woods — 
Lands  deluged  by  unbridled  floods, — 
And  beast  and  bird  that  from  the  spell 
Of  sleep  took  import  terrible, 
These  types  mysterious  (if  the  show 
Of  battle  and  the  routed  foe 
Had  failed)  would  furnish  an  array 
Of  matter  for  the  dawning  day ! 

How  disappeared  he  ? — ask  the  newt  and 

Inheritors  of  his  abode  ;  [toad, 

The  otter  crouching  undisturbed, 

In  her  dank  cleft  ; — but  be  thou  curbed, 

O  froward  fancy  !  'mid  a  scene 

Of  aspect  winning  and  serene  ; 

For  those  offensive  creatures  shun 

The  inquisition  of  the  sun  ! 

And  in  this  region  flowers  delight, 

And  all  is  lovely  to  the  sight. 


Spring  finds  not  here  a  melancholy  br<  a  I 
When  she  applu-s  her  annual  test 
To  dead  and  living  ;  when  her  breath 
Quickens,  as  now,  the  withered  heath  ;- 
Nor  flaunting  summer— when  he  throws 
His  soul  into  the  briar-rose  ; 
Or  calls  the  lily  from  her  sleep  ; 
Prolonged  beneath  the  bordering  deep  : 
Nor  autumn,  when  the  viewless  wren 
Is  warbling  near  the  Brownie's  den. 

Wild  relique  !  beauteous  as  the  chosen  spot 
In  Nysa's  isle,  the  embellished  grot ; 
Whither  by  care  of  Libyan  Jove 
(High  servant  of  paternal  love), 
Young  Bacchus  was  conveyed — to  lie 
Safe  from  his  step-dame  Rhea's  eye  ; 
Where   bud,    and  bloom,    and    fruitage, 

glowed, 
Close  crowding  round  the  infant  god, 
All  colours,  and  the  liveliest  streak 
A  foil  to  his  celestial  cheek  ! 


COMPOSED  AT  CORRA  LINN. 

IN  SIGHT   OF   WALLACE'S   TOWER. 

"How  Wallace  fought   for   Scotland,  left   th- 

name 
Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a  wild  flower, 
All  over  his  dear  country  :  left  the  deeds 
Of  Wallace,  like  a  family  of  ghosts, 
To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks, 
Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a  local  soul 
Of  independence  and  stern  liberty." — MS. 

Lord  of  the  vale  !  astounding  flood  ! 
The  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 
Quakes — conscious  of  thy  power  ; 
The  caves  reply  with  hollow  moan  ; 
And  vibrates  to  its  central  stone, 
Yon  time-cemented  tower  ! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene  ! 
For  thou,  O  Clyde,  hast  ever  been 
Beneficent  as  strong  ; 
Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep 
The  little  trembling  flowers  that  peep 
Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee — delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  voice  can  hear  ; 
And,  to  the  patriot  warrior's  shade, 
Lord  o*"  the  vale  1  to  heroes  laid 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear  I 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night 
Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  wight ; 


158 


MEMOlilALFt  OF  A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND. 


Or  stands  in  warlike  vest, 
Aloft,  beneafch  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
A  champion  worthy  of  the  stream, 
Yon  gray  tower's  living  crest  ! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 
A  form  not  doubtfully  descried  : — 
Their  transient  mission  o'er, 
Oh,  say  to  what  blind  region  flee 
These  shapes  of  awful  phantasy? 
To  what  untrodden  shore? 

Less  than  divine  command  they  spurn  ; 
But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn, 
And  this  the  valleys  show, 
That  never  will  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 
Shall  walk  the  Marathonian  plain  ; 
Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom, 
That  still  invests  the  guardian  pass 
Where  stood,  sublime,  Leonidas, 
Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

Nor  deem  that  it  can  aught  avail 
For  such  to  glide  with  oar  or  sail 
Beneath  the  piny  wood, 
Where  Tell  once  drew,  by  Uri's  lake, 
His  vengeful  shafts — prepared  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  tyrant's  blood. 


EFFUSION, 

IN   THE   PLEASURE-GROUXD   ON   THE 
BANKS  OF   THE  BRAN,    NEAR    DUNKELD. 

"  The  waterfall,  by  a  loud  roaring,  warned  us 
when  we  must  expect  it.  We  were  first,  how- 
ever, conducted  into  a  small  apartment,  where 
the  gardener  desired  us  to  look  at  the  picture 
of  Ossian,  which,  while  he  was  telling  the 
history  of  the  young  artist  who  executed  the 
work,  disappeared,  parting  in  the  middle- 
flying  asunder  as  by  the  touch  of  magic — and 
lo  !  we  are  at  the  entrance  of  a  splendid  apart- 
ment, which  was  almost  dizzy  and  alive  with 
waterfalls,  that  tumbled  in  all  directions  ;  the 
great  cascade,  opposite  the  window,  which 
faced  us,  being  reflected  in  innumerable  mirrors 
upon  the  ceiling  and  against  the  walls."— 
Extract  from  the  Journal  of  my  Fellow- 
Traveller. 

What  he — who  'mid  the  kindred  throng 
Of  heroes  that  inspired  his  song, 
Doth  yet  frequent  the  hill  of  storms, 
The    stars    dim-twinkling    through    their 
forms  ! 


What !  Ossian  here — a  painted  thrall, 
Mute  fixture  on  a  stuccoed  wall  ; 
To  serve,  an  unsuspected  screen 
For  show  that  must  not  yet  be  seen  : 
And,  when  the  moment  comes,  to  part 
And  vanish  by  mysterious  art  ; 
Head,  harp,  and  body,  split  asunder, 
For  ingress  to  a  world  of  wonder  ; 
A  gay  saloon,  with  waters  dancing 
Upon  the  sight  wherever  glancing  ; 
One  loud  cascade  in  front,  and  lo  ! 
A  thousand  like  it,  white  as  snow — 
Streams  on  the  walls,  and  torrents  foam 
As  active  round  the  hollow  dome, 
Illusive  cataracts !  of  their  terrors 
Not  stript,  nor  voiceless  in  the  mirrors, 
That  catch  the  pageant  from  the  flood 
Thundering  adown  a  rocky  wood  ! 
Strange  scene,  fantastic  and  uneasy 
As  ever  made  a  maniac  dizzy, 
When  disenchanted  from  the  mood 
That  loves  on  sullen  thoughts  to  brood  ! 

O  nature,  in  thy  changeful  visions, 
Through  all  thy  most  abrupt  transitions, 
Smooth,  graceful,  tender,  or  sublime, 
Ever  averse  to  pantomime, 
Thee  neither  do  they  know  nor  us 
Thy  servants,  who  can  trifle  thus  ; 
Else  surely  had  the  sober  powers 
Of  rock  that  frowns,  and  stream  that  roan 
Exalted  by  congenial  sway 
Of  spirits,  and  the  undying  lay, 
And  names  that  moulder  not  away, 
Awakened  some  redeeming  thought 
More  worthy  of  this  favoured  spot  ; 
Recalled  some  feeling — to  set  free 
The  bard  from  such  indignity  ! 

The  effigies  of  a  valiant  wight* 
I  once  beheld,  a  Templar  knight  ; 
Not  prostrate,  not  like  those  that  rest 
On  tombs,  with  palms  together  pressed,' 
But  sculptured  out  of  living  stone, 
And  standing  upright  and  alone, 
Both  hands  with  rival  energy 
Employed  in  setting  his  sword  free 
From  its  dull  sheath— stern  sentinel 
Intent  to  guard  St.  Robert's  cell  ; 
As  if  with  memory  of  the  affray 
Far  distant,  when,  as  legends  say, 
The    monks    of    Fountains    thronged    to 

force 
From  its  dear  home  the  hermit's  corse, 


*  On  the  banks  of  the  river  Nid,  near  Knares- 
borough- 


MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOVJi  TN  SCOTLAND. 


\r,9 


That  in  their  keeping  it  might  lie, 
To  crown  their  abbey's  sanctity. 
So  had  they  rushed  into  the  grot 
Of  sense  despised,  a  world  forgot, 
And  torn  him  from  his  loved  retreat, 
Where  altar-stone  and  rock-hewn  seat 
Still  hint  that  quiet  best  is  found, 
Even  by  the  living,  under  ground  ; 
But  a  bold  knight,  the  selfish  aim 
Defeating,  put  the  monks  to  shame, 
There  where  you  see  his  image  stand 
Bare  to  the  sky,  with  threatening  brand 
Which  lingering  Nid  is  proud  to  show 
Reflected  in  the  pool  below. 

Thus,  like  the  men  of  earliest  days, 
Our  sires  set  forth  their  grateful  praise  ; 
Uncouth  the  workmanship,  and  rude  ! 
But,  nursed  in  mountain  solitude, 
Might  some  aspiring  artist  dare 
To  seize  whate'er,  through  misty  air, 
A  ghost,  by  glimpses,  may  present 
Of  imitable  lineament, 
And  give  the  phantom  such  array 
As  less  should  scorn  the  abandoned  clay  ; 
Then  let  him  hew,  with  patient  stroke, 
An  Ossian  out  of  mural  rock, 
And  leave  the  figurative  man 
Upon  thy  margin,  roaring  Bran  ! 
Fixed,  liked  the  Templar  of  the  steep, 
An  everlasting  watch  to  keep  ; 
With  local  sanctities  in  trust  ; 
More  precious  than  a  hermit's  dust ; 
And  virtues  through  the  mass  infused, 
Which  old  idolatry  abused. 

What  though  the  granite  would  deny 
All  fervour  to  the  sightless  eye  ; 
And  touch  from  rising  suns  in  vain 
Solicit  a  Memnonian  strain  ; 
Yet,  in  some  fit  of  anger  sharp, 
The  wind  might  force  the  deep-grooved  harp 
To  utter  melancholy  moans 
Not  unconnected  with  the  tones 
Of  soul-sick  flesh  and  weary  bones  ; 
While  grove  and  river  notes  would  lend, 
Less  deeply  sad,  with  these  to  blend  ! 

Vain  pleasures  of  luxurious  life, 
Forever  with  yourselves  at  strife  ; 
Through  town  and  country  both  deranged 
By  affectations  interchanged, 
And  all  the  perishable  gauds 
That  heaven-deserted  man  applauds  ; 
When  will  your  hapless  patrons  learn 
To  watch  and  ponder — to  discern 
The  freshness,  the  eternal  youth, 
Of  admiration  sprung  from  truth; 


From  beauty  infinitely  growing 
Upon  a  mind  with  love  o'erflowing  ; 
To  sound  the  depths  of  every  art 
That  seeks  its  wisdom  through  the  heart? 

Thus  (where  the  intrusive  pile,  ill-graced 
With  baubles  of  theatric  taste, 
O'crlooks  the  torrent  breathing  showers 
On  motley  bands  of  alien  flowers, 
In  stiff  confusion  set  or  sown, 
Till  nature  cannot  find  her  own, 
Or  keep  a  remnant  of  the  sod 
Which  Caledonian  heroes  trod) 
I  mused  ;  and,  thirsting  for  redress, 
Recoiled  into  the  wilderness. 


YARROW  VISITED, 

September,  1814. 

AND  is  this — Yarrow?  —This  the  stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished  ! 

Oh,  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why?— A  silvery  current  flows 
With  uncontrolled  meanderings  ; 
Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 
Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 
And,  through herdepths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 
Is  visibly  delighted  ; 
For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 
Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  flower 

Of  Yarrow  vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding  : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  water-wraith  ascended  thrice — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  lovers. 


160 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 
The  leafy  grove  that  covers  : 
And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ; 
Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation  : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  ; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature  ; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary  ! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  chi  dhood's  opening  bloom, 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength  ; 
And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 


Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 
A  covert  for  protection 
Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there, 
The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 
The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 
And  on  my  true  love's  forehead  plant 
A  crest  of  blooming  heather ! 
And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own  ! 
'Twere  no  offence  to  reason  ; 
The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

J.  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee  ! 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever  youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 

According  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 
They  melt — and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  no  more  is  mine- 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me  to  heightened  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


|0*m8  an  fyt  Uamimj  at  |§Ia«s. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

By  persons  resident  in  the  country  and  at- 
tached to  rural  objects,  many  places  will  be 
found  unnamed  or  of  unknown  names, 
where  little  incidents  must  have  occurred, 
or  feelings  been  experienced,  which  will 


have  given  to  such  places  a  private  and 
peculiar  interest.  From  a  wish  to  give 
some  sort  of  record  to  such  incidents,  or 
renew  the  gratification  of  such  feelings, 
names  have  been  given  to  places  by  the 
author  and  some  of  his  friends,  and  the 
following  poems  written  in  consequence. 


It  was  an  April  morning :  fresh  and  clear. 
The  rivulet,  delighting  in  its  strength, 
Ran  with  a  young  man's  speed  ;  and  yet 

the  voice 
Of  waters  which  the  winter  had  supplied 
Was  softened  down  into  a  vernal  tone. 
The  spirit  of  enjoyment  and  desire, 


And    hopes   and   wishes,    from   all  living 

things 
Went  circling,  like  a  multitude  of  sounds. 
The  budding  groves  appeared  as  if  in  haste 
To  spur   the  steps  of  June  ;    as  if  their 

shades 
Of  various  green  were  hindrances  that  stood 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


1G1 


Between  them  and  their  object  ;  yet,  mean- 
while, 
lln  ie  was  such  deep  contentment  in  the  air. 
That  every  naked  ash  and  tardy  tree 
Yet  leafless,  seemed  as  though  the  counte- 
nance 
With  which  it  looked  on  this  delightful  day 
Were  native  to  the  summer. — Up  the  brook 
I  roamed  in  the  confusion  of  my  heart, 
Alive  to  all  things  and  forgetting  all. 
At  length  I  to  a  sudden  turning  came 
In  this  continuous  glen,  where  down  a  rock 
The  stream,  so  ardent  in  its  course  before, 
Sent  forth  such  sallies  of  glad  sound,  that  all 
Which  I  till  then  had  heard,  appeared  the 
voice  [lamb, 

Of  common  pleasure :  beast  and  bird,  the 
The   shepherd's   dog,    the  linnet   and   the 

thrush 
Vied  with  this  waterfall,  and  made  a  song 
Which,  while  I  listened,  seemed  like  the  wild 

growth 
I  >r  like  some  natural  produce  of  the  air, 
That  could  not  cease  to  be.     Green  leaves 

were  here  ; 
But  'twas  the  foliage  of  the  rocks,  the  birch, 
The  yew,  the  holly,  and  the  bright  green 

thorn, 
With  hanging  islands  of  resplendent  furze  : 
And  on  a  summit,  distant  a  short  space, 
By  any  who  should  look  beyond  the  dell, 
A  single  mountain  cottage  might  be  seen. 
I  gazed  and  gazed,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"Our  thoughts  at  least  are  ours  ;  and  this 

wild  nook, 
My  Emma,  I  will  dedicate  to  thee." 
Soon  did  the  spot  become  my  other  home, 
My  dwelling,  and  my  out-of-doors  abode. 
And,  of  the  shepherds  who  have  seen  me 

there, 
To  whom  I  sometimes  in  our  idle  talk 
Have  told  this  fancy,  two  or  three,  perhaps, 
Years  after  we  are  gone  and  in  our  graves, 
When  they  have  cause  to  speak  of  this  wild 

place, 
Way  call  it  by  the  name  of  Emma's  Dell. 


TO  JOANNA. 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 
The  time  of  early  youth  ;  and  there  you 

learned, 
From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  beings  by  your  own  fire-side, 
With  such  a  strong  devotion,  that   your 

heart 


Is  slow  towards  the  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 
And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams 

and  groves. 
Yet  we,  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind, 
Dwelling  retired  in  our  simplicity 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you 

well, 
Joanna!  and  I  guess,  since  you  have  been 
So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years, 
That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse 
However  trivial,  if  you  thence  are  taught 
That    they,    with    whom    you    once    were 

happy,  talk 
PVimiliarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

While  I  was  seated,  now  some  ten  days 
past, 
Beneath  those  lofty  firs,  that  overtop 
Their  ancient   neighbour,    the  old   steeple 

tower, 
The  vicar  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by 
Came  forth  to  greet  me ;  and  when  he  had 
asked,  [maid  I 

' '  How    fares  Joanna  ;    that    wild-hearted 
And   when   will    she    return   to  us?"    he 

paused  ; 
And,  after  short  exchange  of  village  news. 
He  with  grave  looks  demanded,  for  what 

cause, 
Reviving  obsolete  idolatry, 
I,  like  a  Runic  priest,  in  characters 
Of  formidable  size  had  chiselled  out 
Some  uncouth  name  upon  the  native  rock, 
Above  the  Rotha,  by  the  forest  side. 
Now  by  those  dear  immunities  of  heart 
Engendered  betwixt  malice  and  true  love, 
I  was  not  loth  to  be  so  catechised, 
And  this  was  my  reply  : — "As  it  befel, 
One    summer    morning    we    had    walked 

abroad 
At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 
'Twas   that    delightful    season    when    the 

broom, 
Full-flowered,   and  visible  on  every  steep, 
Along  the  copses  runs  in  veins  of  gold. 
Our  pathway  led  us  on  to  Rotha's  banks  ; 
And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that  tall  rock 
Which  looks  toward  the  east,  I  there  stopped 

short, 
And  traced  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 
From  base  to  summit  ;  such  delight  I  found 
To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and 

flower, 
That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues, 
Along  so  vast  a  surface,  all  at  once, 
In  one  impression,  by  connecting  force 
Of  their  own  beauty,  imaged  in  the  heart. 


1G2 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLAGES. 


When  I  had  gazed  perhaps  two  minutes  j 

space, 
Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld  i 

That  ravishment   of    mine,    and   laughed  | 

aloud.  [sleep,  I 

The  rock,  like  something  starting  from  a  \ 
Took  up  the  lady's  voice,    and   laughed  I 

again  : 
That  ancient  woman  seated  on  Helm-Crag 
Was  ready  with  her  cavern-.  Hammer-Scar, 
And  the  tall  steep  of  Silver-how,  sent  forth  | 
A  noise  of  laughter  ;  southern  Loughrigg 

heard,  [tone : 

And  Fairfield  answered  with  a  mountain 
Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 
Carried  the   lady's  voice,  —  old   Skiddaw 

blew  [clouds 

His  speaking  trumpet ; — back  out  of  the 
Of  Glaramara  southward  came  the  voice  : 
And  Kirkstone  tossed  itfrom  hismistyhead. 
Now  whether  (said  I  to  our  cordial  friend, 
Who  in  the  hey-day  of  astonishment 
Smiled  in  my  face)  this  were  in  simple  truth 
A  work  accomplished  by  the  brotherhood 
Of  ancient  mountains,  or  my  ear  was  touched 
With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses 
To  me  alone  imparted,  sure  I  am 
That  there  was  a  loud  uproar  in  the  hills  : 
And,  while  we  both  were  listening,  to  my 

side 
The  fair  Joanna  drew,  as  if  she  wished 
To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her  fear. 
And  hence,  long  afterwards,  when  eighteen 

moons 
Were  wasted,  as  I  chanced  to  walk  alone 
Beneath  this  rock,  at  sunrise,  on  a  calm 
And  silent  morning,  I  sat  down,  and  there, 
In  memory  of  affections,  old  and  true, 
I  chiselled  out  in  those  rude  characters 
Joanna's  name  upon  the  living  stone. 
And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fire-side, 
Have    called    the   lovely    rock,    Joanna's 
Rock."* 


And  when  at  evening  we  pursue  our  walk 
Along  the  public  way,  this  cliff,  so  high 
Above  us,  and  so  distant  in  its  height, 
Is  visible  ;  and  often  seems  to  send 
Its  own  deep  quiet  to  restore  our  hearts. 
The  meteors  make  of  it  a  favourite  haunt : 
The  star  of  Jove,  so  beautiful  and  large 
In  the  mid  heavens,  is  never  half  so  fair 
As  when  he  shines  above  it.     'Tis  in  truth 
The  loneliest  place  we  have  among  the 
clouds.  [loved 

And  she  who  dwells  with  me,  whom  I  have 
With  such  communion,  that  no  place  on 
Can  ever  be  a  solitude  to  me,  [earth 

Hath  to  this  lonely  summit  given  my  name. 


There  is  an  eminence, — of  these  our  hills 
The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun. 
We  can  behold  it  from  our  orchard-seat  ; 


A  narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and 

crags, 
A  rude  and  natural  causeway,  interposed 
Between  the  water  and  a  winding  slope 
Of  copse  and  thicket,  leaves  the  eastern 

shore 
Of  Grasmere  safe  in  its  own  privacy. 
And  there,  myself  and  two  beloved  friends, 
One  calm  September  morning,  ere  the  mist 
Had  altogether  yielded  to  the  sun, 
Sauntered  on  this  retired  and  difficult  way. 
Ill  suits  the  road  with  one  in  haste,  but  we 
Played  with  our  time  ;  and,  as  we  strolled 
It  was  our  occupation  to  observe      [along, 
Such  objects  as  the  waves  had  tossed  ashore, 
Feather,    or    leaf,    or    weed,    or  withered 

bough, 
Each  on  the  other  heaped,  along  the  line 
Of  the  dry  wreck.      And,  in  our  vacant 

mood, 
Not  seldom  did  we  stop  to  watch  some  tuft 
Of  dandelion  seed  or  thistle's  beard, 
That  skimmed   the  surface  of    the  dead 

calm  lake, 
Suddenly  halting  now — a  lifeless  stand  ! 
And    starting    off    again    with    freak    as 

sudden  ; 
In  all  its  sportive  wanderings,  all  the  while, 
Making  report  of  an  invisible  breeze 
That  was  its  wings,   its  chariot,    and  its 

horse, 


*  In  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  are  seve- 
ral inscriptions,  upon  the  native  rock,  which, 
from  the  wasting  of  time,  and  the  rudeness  of 
the  workmanship,  have  been  mistaken  for  Runic. 
They  are,  without  doubt,  Roman. 

The  Rotha,  mentioned  in  this  poem,  is  the 
river  which,  flowing  through  the  lakes  of  Gras- 
mere and  Rydal,  falls  into  Wynander. — On 
Helm-Crag,  that  impressive  single  mountain  at 


the  head  of  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  is  a  rock 
which  from  most  points  of  view  bears  a  striking 
resemblance  to  an  old  woman  cowering.  Close 
by  this  rock  is  one  of  those  fissures  of  caverns, 
which  in  the  language  of  the  country  are  called 
dungeons.  Most  of  the  mountains  here  men- 
tioned immediately  surround  the  vale  cf  Gras- 
mere :  of  the  others,  some  are  at  a  considerable 
distance,  but  they  belong  to  the  same  cluster. 


POEMS  OX  TTTE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


163 


Its  playmate,  rather  say  its  moving  soul. 
And  oltcn,  trifling  with  a  privilege 
Alike  indulged  to  all,  we  paused,  one  now, 
And    now   the    other,  to   point    out,    per- 
chance 
To  pluck,  some  flower  or  water-weed,  too 
Either  to  be  divided  from  the  place       [fair 
On  which  it  grew,  or  to  be  left  alone 
To  its  own  beauty.     Many  such  there  are, 
Fair  ferns  and  flowers,  and  chiefly  that  tall 

lern, 
So  stately,  of  the  Queen  Osmunda  named  ; 
Plant  lovelier  in  its  own  retired  abode 
On  Grasmere's  beach,  than  naiad  by  the 

side 
Of  Grecian  brook,  or  lady  of  the  mere, 
Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance, 
So  fared  we  that  bright   morning  :    from 
the  fields,  [mirth 

Meanwhile,  a  noise  was  heard,   the  busy 
Of  reapers,  men   and  women,  boys  and 

girls. 
Delighted  much  to  listen  to  those  sounds, 
And  feeding  thus  our  fancies,  we  advanced 
Along  the  indented  shore  ;  when  suddenly, 
Through  a  thin  veil  of  glittering  haze  was 

seen 
Before  us,  on  a  point  of  jutting  land, 
The  tall  and  upright  figure  of  a  man 
Attired  in  peasant's  garb,  who  stood  alone, 
Angling  beside  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
Improvident  and  reckless,  we  exclaimed, 
The  man   must  be,  who  thus  can  lose  a 
day  [hire 

Of  the  mid-harvest,  when  the  labourer's 
Is  ample,  and  some  little  might  be  stored 
Wherewith  to  cheer  him  in  the  winter  time. 
Thus  talking  of  that  peasant,  we  ap- 
proached 
Close  to  the  spot  where  with  his  rod  and 
line  [head 

He  stood  alone  ;    whereat  he  turned   his 
To  greet  us — and  we  saw  a  man  worn  down 
By  sickness,  gaunt  and  lean,  with  sunken 
cheeks  [lean 

And  wasted   limbs,  his  legs  so  long  and 
That  for  my  single  self  I  looked  at  them, 
Forgetful  of  the  body  they  sustained. — 
Too  weak  to  labour  in  the  harvest  field, 
The  man  was  using  his  best  skill  to  gain 
A  pittance  from  the  dead  unfeeling  lake 
That  knew  not  of  his  wants.    I  will  not  say 
What  thoughts  immediately  were  ours,  nor 

how 
The  happy  idleness  of  that  sweet  morn, 
With  all  its  lovely  images,  was  changed 
To  serious  musing  and  to  self-reproach. 
Nor  did  we  fail  to  see  within  ourselves 


What   need    there   is    to  be  reserved   in 

speech, 
And  temper  all  our  thoughts  with  charity. 
Therefore,  unwilling  to  forget  that  day, 
My   friend,    myself,    and    she    who    then 

received 
The  same  admonishment,  have  called  tlw 

place 
By  a  memorial  name,  uncouth  indeed 
As  e'er  by  mariner  was  given  to  bay 
Or  foreland,  on  a  new-discovered  coast ; 
And  Point  Rash  Judgment  is  the  name  It 

bears. 


TO   M.  H. 


Our  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees; 
There  was  no  road,   nor  any  woodman's 

path  j 
But  the  thick  umbrage,  checking  the  wild 

growth 
Of  weed  and  sapling,  along  soft  green  turf 
Beneath  the  branches,  of  itself  had  made 
A  track,  that  brought  us  to  a  slip  of  lawn, 
And  a  small  bed  of  water  in  the  woods. 
All  round  this  pool  both  flocks  and  herds 

might  drink 
On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a  well, 
Or  some  stone-basin  which  the  herdsman's 

hand  [did  sun, 

Had  shaped   for  their  refreshment  ;    nor 
Or  wind  from  any  quarter,  ever  come, 
But  as  a  blessing,  to  this  calm  recess, 
This  glade  of  water  and  this  one  green 

field. 
The  spot  was  made  by  nature  for  herself, 
The    travellers    know   it    not,    and    'twill 

remain 
Unknown  to  them  :  but  it  is  beautiful  ; 
And  if  a  man  should  plant  his  cottage  near, 
Should  sleep   beneath    the   shelter  of   its 

trees, 
And  blend  its  waters  with  his  daily  meal, 
He  would  so  love  it,  that  in  his  death  hour 
Its  image  would  surviveamonghis  thoughts; 
And  therefore,   my  sweet  Mary,   this  still 

nook,  [you. 

With  all  its  beeches,  we  have  named  from 


When,   to  the  attractions   of   the   busy 

world, 
Preferring  studious  leisure,  I  had  chosen 
A  habitation  in  this  peaceful  vale, 
Sharp  season  followed  of  continual  storm 
In  deepest  winter  ;  and,  from  week  to  week, 


164 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


Pathway,  and  lane,  and  public  road,  were 

clogged  [hill 

With  frequent  showers  of  snow.     Upon  a 
At  a  short  distance  from  my  cottage  stands 
A  stately  fir-grove,  whither  1  was  wont 
To  hasten,  for  I  found  beneath  the  roof 
Of  that  perennial  shade,  a  cloistral  place 
Of  refuge,  with  an  unincumbered  floor. 
Here,  in  safe  covert,  on  the  shallow  snow, 
And,    sometimes,    on   a   speck    of   visible 

earth,  [loth 

The  redbreast  near  me  hopped  ;  nor  was  I 
To  sympathise  with  vulgar  coppice  birds 
That,    for    protection    from    the    nipping 

blast, 
Hither  repaired. — A  single  beech-tree  grew 
Within  this  grove  of  firs  ;  and,  on  the  fork 
Of   that  one  beech,   appeared  a  thrush's 

nest ; 
A  last  year's  nest,  conspicuously  built 
At  such  small  elevation  from  the  ground 
As  gave  sure  sign  that  they,  who  in  that 

house 
Of  nature  and  of  love  had  made  their  home 
Amid  the  fir-trees,  all  the  summer  long 
Dwelt  in  a  tranquil  spot.     And  oftentimes, 
A  few  sheep,  stragglers  from  some  moun- 
tain-flock, 
Would  watch  my  motions  with  suspicious 

stare, 
From  the  remotest  outskirts  of  the  grove, — 
Some  nook   where   they   had   made   their 

final  stand, 
Huddling  together  from  two  fears — the  fear 
Of    me   and   of    the   storm.      Full  many 

an  hour 
Here  did  I  lose.      But  in  this  grove  the 

trees  [thriven 

Had   been   so   thickly   planted,    and   had 
In  such  perplexed  and  intricate  array, 
That  vainly  did  I  seek,  between  their  stems, 
A  length  of  open  space,  where  to  and  fro 
My  feet  might  move  without  concern  or 

care. 
And,  baffled  thus,  before  the  storm  relaxed, 
I    ceased    the    shelter    to    frequent, — and 

prized 
Less  than   I   wished   to  prize,   that   calm 

recess. 

The  snows  dissolved,  and  genial  spring 

returned  [haunts 

To  clothe  the  fields  with  verdure.     Other 

Meanwhile   were   mine ;    till,    one   bright 

April  day, 
By  chance  retiring  from  the  glare  of  noon 
To  this  forsaken  covert,  there  I  found 
A  noary  pathway  traced  between  the  trees, 


And  winding  on  with  such  an  easy  line 
Along  a  natural  opening,  that  I  stood 
Much  wondering  how  I  could  have  sought 

in  vain 
For  what  was  now  so  obvious.     To  abide, 
For  an  allotted  interval  of  ease, 
Beneath  my  cottage  roof,  had  newly  come 
From  the  wild  sea  a  cherished  visitant ; 
And  with  the  sight  of  this  same  path- 
begun, 
Begun  and  ended,  in  the  shady  grove, 
Pleasant  conviction  flashed  upon  my  mind 
That,  to  this  opportune  recess  allured, 
He  had  surveyed  it  with  a  finer  eye, 
A  heart  more  wakeful  ,  and  had  worn  the 

track 
By  pacing  here,  unwearied  and  alone, 
In  that  habitual  restlessness  of  foot      [o'er 
With  which  the  sailor  measures  o'er  and 
His  short  domain  upon  the  vessel's  deck, 
While  she  is  travelling  through  the  dreary 


When    thou   hadst   quitted   Esthwaite's 

pleasant  shore, 
And  taken  thy  first  leave  of  those  green 

hills  [youth. 

And  rocks  that  were  the  play-ground  of  thy 
Year  followed  year,  my  brother!  and  we  two, 
Conversing  not,  knew  little  in  what  mould 
Each  other's  minds  were  fashioned  ;  and  at 

length, 
When  once  again  we  met  in  Grasmere  vale, 
Between  us  there  was  little  other  bond 
Than  common  feelings  of  fraternal  love. 
But  thou,  a  school-boy,  to  the  sea  hadst 

carried 
Undying  recollections  :  nature  there 
Was  with  thee ;  she,  who  loved  us  both, 

she  still  [become 

Was  with  thee  ;   and  even  so  didst  thou 
A  silent  poet  ;  from  the  solitude         [heart 
Of    the  vast   sea  didst  bring  a   watchful 
Still  couchant,  an  inevitable  ear, 
And  an  eye  practised  like  a  blind  man's 

touch. 
Back  to  the  joyless  ocean  thou  art  gone  ; 
Xor  from  this  vestige  of  thy  musing  hours 
Could  I  withhold  thy  honoured  name,  and 

now 
I  love  the  fir-grove  with  a  perfect  love. 
Thither  do  I  withdraw  when  cloudless  suns 
Shine  hot,  or  wind  blows  troublesome  and 

strong : 
And  there  I  sit  at  evening,  when  the  steep 
Of  Silver-how,   and  Grasmere's  peaceful 

lake,  [stems 

And  one  green  island,  gleam  between  the 


\ 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


165 


Of  the  dark  firs,  a  visionary  scene  ! 

And,  while  I  gaze  upon  the  spectacle 

Of  clouded  splendour,  on  this  dream-like 

sight 
Of  solemn  loveliness,  I  think  on  thee, 
My  brother,  and  on  all  which  thou   hast 

lost. 
Nor  seldom,  if  I  rightly  guess,  while  thou, 
Muttering  the  verses  which  I  muttered  first 
Among  the  mountains,  through  the  mid- 
night watch 
Art  pacing  thoughtfully  the  vessel's  deck 
In  some  far  region,   here,   while  o'er  my 

head, 
At  every  impulse  of  the  moving  breeze, 


The    fir-grove    murmurs    with   a   sea-like 

sound, 
Alone  I  tread  this  path  ;— for  aught  I  know, 
Timing  my  steps  to  thine  ;  and,  with  a  store 
Of  undistinguishable  sympathies, 
Mingling  most  earnest  wishes  tor  the  day 
When  we,  and  others  whom  we  love,  shall 

meet 
A  second  time,  in  Grasmere's  happy  vale. 


Note.— This  wish  was  not  granted;  the 
lamented  person,  not  long  after,  perished  by 
shipwreck,  in  discharge  of  his  duty  as  com- 
mander  of  the  Honourable  East  India  Company  s 
vessel,  the  Earl  oJ  Abergavenny. 


Inscriptions. 


IN  THE  GROUNDS  OF  COLEORTON,  THE 
SEAT  OF  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT, 
BART.,  LEICESTERSHIRE. 

The  embowering  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the 

pine, 
Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign  ; 
If  but  the   cedar  thrive   that   near   them 

stands, 
Planted   by    Beaumont's  and  by  Words- 
worth's hands. 
One  wooed  the  silent  art  with  studious 

pains, — 
These  groves  have  heard  the  other's  pen- 
sive strains  ; 
Devoted  thus,  their  spirits  did  unite 
By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight. 
May  nature's  kindliest  powers  sustain  the 
And  love  protect  it  from  all  injury  !       [tree, 
And  when  its  potent  branches,  wide  out- 
thrown, 
Darken  the  brow  of  this  memorial  stone, 
Here  may  some  painter  sit  in  future  days, 
Some  future  poet  meditate  his  lays  ; 
Not  mindless  of  that  distant  age  renowned 
When  inspiration  hovered  o'er  this  ground, 
The  haunt  of  him  who  sang  how  spear  and 

shield 
In  civil  conflict  met  on  Bosworth  field; 
And  of  that  famous  youth,  full  soon  removed 
From  earth,  perhaps  by  Shakspeare's  self 

approved, 
Fletcher's  associate,  Jonson's  friend  beloved. 


IN  A  GARDEN  OF  THE  SAME. 
Oft  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust 
When  temples,  columns,  towers  are  laid  in 

dust ; 
And  'tis  a  common  ordinance  of  fate 
That  things  obscure  and  small  outlive  the 

great  : 
Hence,  when  yon  mansion  and  the  flowery 

trim 
Of  this  fair  garden,  and  its  alleys  dim, 
And  all  its  stately  trees  are  passed  away, 
This  little  niche,  unconscious  of  decay. 
Perchance   may  still  survive.— And  be  it 

known 
That   it   was   scooped   within    the    living 

stone, — 
Not  by  the  sluggish  and  ungrateful  pains 
Of  labourer  plodding  for  his  daily  gains ; 
But  by  an  industry  that  wrought  in  love, 
With  help  from  female  hands,  that  proudly 

strove  land  bowers 
To  aid  the  work,  what  time  these  walks 
WTere  shaped  to  cheer  dark  winter's  lonely- 
hours.             

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  SIR 
GEORGE  BEAUMONT,  BART.,  AND  IN 
HIS  NAME,  FOR  AN  URN,  PLACED  BY 
HIM  AT  THE  TERMINATION  OF  A 
NEWLY-PLANTED  AVENUE,  IN  THE 
SAME  GROUNDS. 

Ye  lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed 

urn,  [return; 

Shoot  forth  with  lively  power  at  spring's 


266 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


And  be  not  slow  a  stately  growth  to  rear 
Of  pillars,  branching  off  from  year  to  year, 
Till  they  have  learned  to  frame  a  darksome 

aisle ; — 
That  may  recall  to  mind  that  awful  pile 
Where  Reynolds,  'mid  our  country's  noblest 

dead, 
In  the  last  sanctity  of  fame  is  laid. 
There,     though    by  right    the    excelling 

painter  sleep  [keep, 

Where  death  and  glory  a  joint  Sabbath 
Yet  not  the  less  his  spirit  would  hold  dear 
Self-hidden  praise,  and  friendship's  private 

tear  : 
Hence,  on  my  patrimonial  grounds,  have  I 
Raised  this  frail  tribute  to  his  memory, 
From  youth  a  zealous  follower  of  the  art 
That  he  professed,   attached    to   him   in 

heart: 
Admiring,  loving,  and  with  grief  and  pride 
Feeling  what  England  lost  when  Reynolds 

died. 


FOR   A   SEAT   IN   THE  GROVES   OF 
COLEORTON. 

Beneath  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy 

bound,  [ground, 

Rugged  and  high,  of  Charnwood's  forest 
Stand  yet,  but,  stranger  1  hidden  from  thy 

view, 
The  ivied  ruins  of  forlorn  Grace  Dieu  ; 
Erst  a  religious  house,  which  day  and  night 
With  hymns  resounded,  and   the  chanted 

rite : 
And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  spot 

gave  birth 
To  honourable  men  of  various  worth  : 
There,  on  the  margin  of  a  streamlet  wild, 
Did    Francis    Beaumont    sport,  an   eager 

child; 
There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighbouring 

rocks,  [flocks ; 

Sang  youthful  tales  of  shepherds  and  their 
Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes, 
Heart-breaking     tears,    and     melancholy 

dreams 
Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage, 
With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskined 

stage. 
Communities  are  lost,  and  empires  die, 
And  things  of  holy  use  unhallowed  lie  ; 
They  perish  ; — but  the  intellect  can  raise, 
From  airy  words  alone,  a  pile  that  ne'er 

decays. 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL  UPON  A  STONE 
IN  THE  WALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  (AN 
OUT-HOUSE)  ON  THE  ISLAND  AT 
GRASMERE. 

Rude  is  this  edifice,  and  thou  hast  seen 
Buildings,  albeit  rude,  that  have  maintained 
Proportions    more    harmonious,    and   ap- 
proached 
To  somewhat  of  a  closer  fellowship 
With  the  ideal  grace.     Yet,  as  it  is, 
Do  take  it  in  good  part  : — alas  !  the  poor 
Vitruvius  of  our  village  had  no  help 
From  the  great  city ;  never,  on  the  leaves 
Of  red  morocco  folio  saw  displayed 
The  skeletons  and  pre-existing  ghosts 
Of  beauties  yet  unborn,  the  rustic  box, 
Snug  cot,    with   coach-house,   shed,    and 

hermitage. 
Thou  see'st  a  homely  pile,  yet  to  these  walls 
The  heifer  comes  in  the  snow-storm,  and 
here  [the  wind. 

The  new-dropped  lamb  finds  shelter  from 
And  hither  does  one  poet  sometimes  row 
His  pinnace,  a  small  vagrant  barge,  up-piled 
With  plenteous  store  of  heath  and  withered 

fern, 
(A  lading  which  he  with  his  sickle  cuts 
Among  the  mountains)and  beneath  this  roof 
He  makes  his  summer  couch,  and  here  at 
noon  [the  sheep, 

Spreads  out  his  limbs,  while,  yet  unshorn, 
Panting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  wool, 
Lie  round  him,  even  as  if  they  were  a  part 
Of  his  own  household  ;  nor,  while  from  his 
bed  [lake 

He  through  that  door-place  looks  toward  the 
And  to  the  stirring  breezes,  does  he  want 
Creations  lovely  as  the  work  of  sleep — 
Fair  sights  and  visions  of  romantic  joy  ! 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  SLATE-PENCIL  ON  A 
STONE,  ON  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  MOUN- 
TAIN  OF   BLACK  COMB. 

Stay,  bold  adventurer;  rest  a  while  thy 
limbs  [mains 

On   this  commodious  seat !  for  much  re- 
Of  hard  ascent  before  thou  reach  the  top 
Of  this  huge  eminence, — from  blackness 

named, 
And.to  far-travelled  storms  of  sea  and  land, 
A  favourite  spot  of  tournament  and  war  ! 
But  thee  may  no  such  boisterous  visitants 
Molest ;  may  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  brow  ; 
And  neither  cloud  conceal,  nor  misty  air 
Bedim,  the  grand  terraqueous  spectacle, 
From  centre  to  circumference,  unveiled ! 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


167 


Know,  if  thou  grudge  not  to  prolong  thy  rest, 
That  on  the  summit  whither  thou  art  bound, 
A  geographic  labourer  pitched  his  tent, 
With  books  supplied  and  instruments  of  art, 
To  measure  height  and  distance;  lonely  task, 
Week  after  week  pursued  1 — To  him  was 

given 
Full  many  a  glimpse  (but  sparingly  bestowed 
On  timid  man)  of  nature's  processes 
Upon  the  exalted  hills.     He  made  report 
That  once,  while  there  he  plied  his  studious 

work 
Within  that  canvas  dwelling,  suddenly 
The  many-coloured  map  before  his  eyes 
Became  invisible :  for  all  around 
Had   darkness    fallen — unthreatened,    un- 

proclaimed — 
As  if  the  golden  day  itself  had  been 
Extinguished  in  a  moment ;  total  gloom, 
In  which  he  sat  alone,  with  unclosed  eyes, 
Upon  the  blinded  mountain's  silent  top! 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  SLATE-PENCIL  UPON 
A  STONE,  THE  LARGEST  OF  A  HEAP 
LYING  NEAR  A  DESERTED  QUARRY, 
UPON  ONE  OF  THE  ISLANDS  AT 
RYDAL. 

Stranger  !    this    hillock  of   mis-shapen 

stones 
Is  not  a  ruin  of  the  ancient  time,        [cairn 
Nor,  as  perchance  thou  rashly  deem'st,  the 
Of  some  old  British  chief :  tis  nothing  more 
Than  the  rude  embryo  of  a  little  dome 
Or  pleasure-house,  once  destined  to  be  built 
Among  the  birch-trees  of  this  rocky  isle. 
But,    as  it   chanced,   Sir  William  having 

learned  [might  wade, 

That    from   the  shore  a  full-grown   man 
And  make  himself  a  freeman  of  this  spot 
At  any  hour  he  chose,  the  knight  forthwith 
Desisted,  and  the  quarry  and  the  mound 
Are  monuments  of  his  unfinished  task. 
The  block  on  which  these  lines  are  traced, 

perhaps, 
Was  once  selected  as  the  corner-stone 
Of  the  intended  pile,  which  would  have  been 
Some  quaint  odd  plaything  of   elaborate 

skill, 
So  that,  I  guess,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush, 
And  other  little  builders  who  dwell  here, 
Had  wondered  at  the  work.     But  blame 

him  not, 
For  old  Sir  William  was  a  gentle  knight 
Bred  in  this  vale,  to  which  he  appertained 
With  all  his  ancestry.    Then  peace  to  him, 
And  for  the  outrage  which  he  had  devised 


Entire  forgiveness ! — But  if  thou  art  one 
On  fire  with  thy  impatience  to  become 
An  inmate  of  these   mountains, — if,   dis- 
turbed 
By  beautiful  conceptions,  thou  hast  hewn 
Out  of  the  quiet  rock  the  elements 
Of  thy  trim  mansion  destined  soon  to  blaze 
In  snow-white    splendour,  —  think   again, 

and,  taught 
By  old  Sir  William  and  his  quarry,  leave 
Thy  fragments  to  the  bramble  and  the  rose; 
There  let  the  vernal  slow-worm  sun  himself, 
And  let  the  redbreast  hop  from  stone  to 
stone. 


INSCRIPTIONS    SUPPOSED    TO     BE    FOUND 
IN  AND  NEAR  A   HERMIT'S  CELL. 

Hopes  what  are  they? — Beads  of  morning 
Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass  ; 
Or  a  spider's  web  adorning 
In  a  strait  and  treacherous  pass. 

What  are  fears  but  voices  airy? 
Whispering  harm  where  harm  is  not ; 
And  deluding  the  unwary 
Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot ! 

What  is  glory? — in  the  socket 
See  how  dying  tapers  fare ! 
What  is  pride? — a  whizzing  rocket 
That  would  emulate  a  star. 

What  is  friendship? — do  not  trust  her, 
Nor  the  vows  which  she  has  made ; 
Diamonds  dart  their  brightest  lustre 
From  a  palsy-shaken  head. 

What  is  truth?— a  staff  rejected ; 
Duty? — an  unwelcome  clog; 
Joy?— a  moon  by  fits  reflected 
In  a  swamp  or  watery  bog ; 

Bright,  as  if  through  ether  steering, 
To  the  traveller's  eye  it  shone  : 
He  hath  hailed  it  re-appearing — 
And  as  quickly  it  is  gone ; 

Gone,  as  if  for  ever  hidden ; 
Or  mis-shapen  to  the  sight, 
And  by  sullen  weeds  forbidden 
To  resume  its  native  light. 

What  is  youth?— a  dancing  billow, 
(Winds  behind,  and  rocks  before !) 
Age? — a  drooping,  tottering  willow 
On  a  flat  and  lazy  shore. 

O 


168 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


What  is  peace? — when  pain  is  over, 
And  love  ceases  to  rebel, 
Let  the  last  faint  sigh  discover 
That  precedes  the  passing  knell ! 

INSCRIBED  UPON  A  ROCK. 

PAUSE,  traveller !  whosoe'er  thou  be 
Whom  chance  may  lead  to  this  retreat 
Where  silence  yields  reluctantly 
Even  to  the  fleecy  straggler's  bleat ; 

Give  voice  to  what  my  hand  shall  trace, 
And  fear  not  lest  an  idle  sound 
Of  words  unsuited  to  the  place 
Disturb  its  solitude  profound. 

I  saw  this  rock,  while  vernal  air 
Blew  softly  o'er  the  russet  heath, 
Uphold  a  monument  as  fair 
As  church  or  abbey  furnisheth. 

Unsullied  did  it  meet  the  day, 
Like  marble  white,  like  ether  pure  ; 
As  if  beneath  some  hero  lay, 
Honoured  with  costliest  sepulture. 

My  fancy  kindled  as  I  gazed; 
And,  ever  as  the  sun  shone  forth, 
The  flattered  structure  glistened,  blazed, 
And  seemed  the  proudest  thing  on  earth. 

But  frost  had  reared  the  gorgeous  pile 
Unsound  as  those  which  fortune  builds; 
To  undermine  with  secret  guile, 
Sapped  by  the  very  beam  that  gilds. 

And,  while  I  gazed,  with  sudden  shock 
Fell  the  whole  fabric  to  the  ground ; 
And  naked  left  this  dripping  rock, 
With  shapeless  ruin  spread  around ! 


Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant, 
Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
Bodied  forth  and  evanescent, 
No  one  knows  by  what  device  ? 

Such  are  thoughts !— A  wind-swept  meadow 
Mimicking  a  troubled  sea, 
Such  is  life;  and  death  a  shadow 
From  the  rock  eternity ! 


NEAR   THE   SPRING  OF  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions, 
Long  impatient  of  thy  rod, 
I  resign  my  soul's  emotions 
Unto  thee,  mysterious  God ! 


What  avails  the  kindly  shelter 
Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent, 
If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter 
On  the  waves  of  discontent  ? 

Parching  summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  well; 
Rains  that  make  each  rill  a  torrent, 
Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 

Thus,  dishonouring  not  her  station, 
Would  my  life  present  to  thee, 
Gracious  God,  the  pure  oblation, 
Of  divine  tranquillity! 


Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest, 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  morn ; 
Not  seldom  evening  in  the  west 
Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove, 
To  the  confiding  bark,  untrue; 
And,  if  she  trust  the  stars  above, 
They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  oak,  in  pomp  outspread, 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend, 
Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 

But  thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord, 
Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die; 
Thy  smile  is  sure,  thy  plighted  word 
No  change  can  falsify! 

I  bent  before  thy  gracious  throne, 
And  asked  for  peace  on  supplian*  knee; 
And  peace  was  given, — nor  peace  alone, 
But  faith  sublimed  to  ecstasy  ! 


FOR  THE  SPOT  WHERE   THE   HERMITAGE 

STOOD  ON  ST.  HERBERT'S  ISLAND, 

DERWENT  WATER. 

Stranger  !  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones 

and  earth 
Is  the  last  relic  of  St.  Herbert's  cell. 
Here  stood  his  threshold;  here  was  SDread 

the  roof 
That  sheltered  him,  a  self-secluded  man, 
After  long  exercise  in  social  cares 
And  offices  humane,  intent  to  adore 
The  Deity,  with  undistracted  mind, 
And  meditate  on  everlasting  things, 
In  utter  solitude.— But  he  had  left 
A  fellow-labourer,   whom   the  good  man 

loved  [upraised 

As  his  own  soul.     And,   when  with  eye 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


169 


To  heaven  he  knelt  before  the  crucifix, 
While  o'er  the  lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 
Pealed  to  his  orisons,  and  when  he  paced 
Along    the   beach   of  this   small   isle  and 

thought 
Of  his  companion,  he  would  pray  that  both 
(Now  that  their  earthly  duties  were  ful- 
filled) 


Might  die  in  the  same  moment.     Nor  in 

vain 
So  prayed  he  : — as  our  chronicles  report, 
Though  here  the  hermit  numbered  his  last 

day, 
Far  from  St.  Cuthbert  his  beloved  friend, 
Those  holy   men  both  died  in  the  same 

hour. 


;0nncts  Qctiicafcb  to  ptarfij. 


COMPOSED    BY    THE    SEA-SIDE,     NEAR 
CALAIS,    AUGUST,    l802. 

Fair  star  of  evening,   splendour  of  the 

west,  [brink 

Star  of    my   country! — on    the    horizon's 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to 

sink  [rest, 

On  England's  bosom :  yet  well  pleased  to 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 
Conspicuous   to    the    nations.      Thou,    I 

think,  [shouldst  wink. 

Shouldst   be   my  country's  emblem  ;   and 
Bright  star !  with  laughter  on  her  banners, 

drest  [spot 

In  thy  fresh  beauty.     There!   that  dusky 
Beneath  thee,  it  is  England;  there  it  lies. 
Blessings  be  on  you  both  !  one  hope,  one 

lot, 
One  life,  one  glory !     I  with  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  country,  many  neartfelt  sighs, 
Among  men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger 

here. 


CALAIS,    AUGUST,    1802. 

Is  it  a  reed  that's  shaken  by  the  wind, 
Or  what  is  it  that  ye  go  forth  to  see? 
Lords,  lawyers,  statesmen,  squires  of  low 

degree,  [and  blind, 

Men  known,  and  men  unknown,  sick,  lame, 
Post   forward   all,    like    creatures   of  one 

kind,  [the  knee 

With   first-fruit   offerings   crowd  to  bend 
In  France,  before  the  new-born  majesty. 
'Tis  even  thus.    Ye  men  of  prostrate  mind! 
A  seemly  reverence  may  be  paid  to  power; 
But  that's  a  loyal  virtue,  never  sown 
In  haste,   nor  springing  with  a   transient 

shower :  [flown, 

When  truth,  when  sense,  when  liberty  were 


What  hardship  had  it  been  to  wait  an 

hour  ?  [prone ! 

Shame   on  you,    feeble   heads,   to  slavery 


TO  A  FRIEND.      COMPOSED  NEAR  CALAIS, 

ON  THE  ROAD  LEADING  TO  ARDRES, 

AUGUST  7,   1802. 

Jones!  while  from  Calais  southward  you 
and  I  [way 

Urged   our   accordant    steps,    this   public 
Streamed  with  the  pomp  of  a  too-credulous 
day,*  [liberty: 

When    faith    was    pledged    to    new-born 
A  homeless  sound  of  joy  was  in  the  sky  ; 
The  antiquated  earth,  as  one  might  say, 
Beat  like  the  heart  of  man:   songs,   gar- 
lands, play, 
Banners,  and  happy  faces,  far  and  nigh  ! 
And  now,  sole  register  that  these  things  were, 
Two  solitary  greetings  have  I  heard, 
"  Good  morrow,  citizen!"  a  hollow  word, 
As  if  a  dead  man  spake  it !     Yet  despair 
Touches  me  not,  though  pensive  as  a  bird 
Whose  vernal  coverts  winter  hath  laid  bare. 


1801. 


I  grieved  for  Bonaparte,  with  a  vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief!  for,  who  aspires 
To  genuine  greatness  but  from  just  desires, 
And   knowledge   such   as  he  could  never 
gain?  [train 

'Tis  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we 
The  governor  who  must  be  wise  and  good, 
And  temper  with  the  sternness  of  the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  meek  as  woman- 
hood, [knees  : 
Wisdom  doth  live  with  children  round  her 

*  14th  July,  1790— [The  day  on  which  the 
unfortunate  Louis  XVI.  took  the  oath  of  fidelity 
to  the  new  constitution] 


170 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


Books,  leisure,    perfect   freedom,   and  the 

talk  [walk 

Man  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the  hourly 

Of  the    mind's    business :    these   are   the 

degrees  [the  stalk 

By   which  true  sway  doth  mount  ;  this  is 

True  power  doth  grow  on  ;  and  her  rights 

are  these. 


CALAIS,  AUGUST  15,  1802. 

Festivals  have  I  seen  that  were  not  names: 
This  is  young  Bonaparte's  natal  day, 
And  his  is  henceforth  an  established  sway, 
Consul   for   life.      With    worship   France 

proclaims  [games. 

Her    approbation,    and   with   pomps  and 
Heaven  grant  that  other  cities  may  be  gay  ! 
Calais  is  not  :  and  I  have  bent  my  way 
To   the  sea-coast,  noting   that  each  man 

frames 
His  business  as  he  likes.     Far  other  show 
My  youth    here  witnessed,   in  a  prouder 

time  ; 
The  senselessness  of  joy  was  then  sublime  ! 
Happy  is  he,  who,  caring  not  for  pope, 
Consul,  or  king,  can  sound  himself  to  know 
The  destiny  of  man,  and  live  in  hope. 

ON  THE    EXTINCTION  OF  THE   VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in 
fee  ;  [worth 

And  was   the  safeguard  of  the  West  :  the 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free  ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate  ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  sea  ! 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay  ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final 
day  :  [the  shade 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even 
Of  that   which  once   was   great,  is   passed 
away. 


THE  KING  OF  SWEDEN. 

The  voice  of  song  from  distant  lands  shall 
call  [youth 

To  that  great  king ;  shall  hail  the  crowned 
Who,  taking  counsel  of  unbending  truth, 
By  one  example  hath  set  forth  to  all 
How  they  with  dignity  may  stand  ;  or  fall  ; 


If  fall  they  must.     Now,  whither  doth  it 

tend? 
And  what  to  him  and  his  shall  be  the  end  ? 
That  thought  is  one  which  neither  can  appal 
Nor  cheer  him  :  for  the  illustrious  Swede 

hath  done  [above 

The  thing  which  ought  to  be  :  he  stands 
All  consequences  ;  work  he  hath  begun 
Of  fortitude,  and  piety,  and  love, 
Which  all  his  glorious  ancestors  approve  : 
The  heroes  bless  him,  him  their  rightful  son. 


TO   TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless 

den  ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?    Yet  die  not  !  do 

thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and    take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left 

behind  [and  skies  : 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee,  air,  earth, 
There's   not   a  breathing  of  the  common 

wind 
That  will  forget  thee ;  thou  hast  great  allies; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


SEPTEMBER    I,    1802. 

Among  the  capricious  acts  of  tyranny  that  dis- 
graced these  times,  was  the  chasing  of  all 
negroes  from  France  by  decree  of  the  govern- 
ment :  we  had  a  fellow-passenger  who  was 
one  of  the  expelled. 

Driven  from  the  soil  of  France,  a  female 

came 
From  Calais  with  us,  brilliant  in  array, 
A  negro  woman  like  a  lady  gay, 
Yet  downcast  as  a  woman  fearing  blame  ; 
Meek,  destitute,  as  seemed,  ofhopeoraim 
She  sate,  from  notice  turning  not  away, 
But  on  all  proffered  intercourse  did  lay 
A  weight    of  languid  speech, — or  at   the 

same 
Was  silent,  motionless  in  eyes  and  face. 
Meanwhile  those  eyes  retained  their  tropic 

fire, 
Which,  burning  independent  of  the  mind, 
Joined  with  the  lustre  of  her  rich  attire 
To   mock  the  outcast — O   ye  heavens  be 

kind! 
And  feel,  thou  earth,  for  this  afflicted  race ! 


SOVIETS  DEDTOATET)  TO  LIBERTY. 


171 


COMPOSED  IN  THE  VALLEY,  NEAR  DOVER, 
ON  THE  DAY  OF  LANDING. 

Here,  on  our  native  soil  we  breathe  once 
more.  [that  sound 

The  cock  that  crows,  the  smoke  that  curls, 
Of  bells, — those  boys  who  in  yon  meadow- 
ground  [the  roar 
In  white-sleeved  shirts  are  playing, — and 
Of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  chalky  shore, 
All,  all  are  English.  Oft  have  I  looked 
round  [found 
With  joy  in  Kent's  green  vales  ;  but  never 
Myself  so  satisfied  in  heart  before. 
Europe  is  yet  in  bonds  ;  but  let  that  pass, 
Thought  for  another   moment.  Thou  art 

free, 
My  country  !  and  'tis  joy  enough  and  pride 
Eor  one  hour's  perfect  bliss,   to  tread  the 

grass 
Of  England  once  again,  and  hear  and  see, 
With  such  a  dear  companion  at  my  side. 


SEPTEMBER,    1802. 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood  ; 
And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and  air  was 

clear,  [how  near  ! 

The  coast  of  France,  the  coast   of  France 
Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbourhood. 
I  shrunk,  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 
Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 
A  span  of  waters  ;  yet  what  power  is  there  ! 
What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 
Virtuous    and    wise.      Winds   blow,    and 

waters  roll, 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power,  and  deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing  !  One  decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the  soul 
Only  the  nations  shall  be  great  and  free  ! 


THOUGHT  OF  A  BRITON  ON  THE  SUBJUGA- 
TION OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Two  voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea, 
One   of  the  mountains  ;   each  a  mighty 

voice 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  liberty  ! 
There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought'st  against  him  ;  but  hast  vainly 

striven.  [driven, 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Uf  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft  ; 


Then  cleave,  oh,  cleave  to  that  which  still 

is  left  ;  [it  be 

For,  high-souled  maid,  what  sorrow  would 

That  mountain  floods  should  thunder  as 

before, 
And  ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  voice  be  heard  by  thee  ! 


WRITTEN    IN  LONDON,  SEPTEMBER,    l8o2. 

O  friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must 

look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 
For  show  ;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman, 

cook,  [brook 

Or  groom  ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest  : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best  ; 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  ; 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more ; 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


LONDON,  1802. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this 

hour  : 
England  hath  need  of  thee  ;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men  ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And    give  us    manners,   virtue,   freedom, 

power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like 

the  sea  ; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands 
that  penned  [none : 

And  tongues   that  uttered  wisdom,  better 
The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 
Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton 

friend. 
These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend  : 
They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  ; 
Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 


172 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


In   splendour  :    what  strength    was,    that     Shed  gentle  favours  ;  rural  works  are  there 

would  not  bend  ['tis  strange,    And  ordinary  business  without  car*  , 

But  in   magnanimous  meekness.     France,    Spot  ric^  in  all  things  that  can  soothe  and 


Hath    brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we 

had  then. 
Perpetual  emptiness  !  unceasing  change 
No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 
No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road  ; 
But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men  ! 


It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world  s  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath    flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters  un- 

withstood," 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, 
That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and 

sands 
Should  perish  ;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armoury  of  the  invincible  knights  of  old  : 
We  must  be  free  or  die,    who  speak   the 

tongue  [morals  hold 

That   Shakspeare    spake :    the   faith   and 
Which   Milton    held.       In  everything  we 

are  sprung 
Of  earth  s  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 


please  !  [dearth 

How  piteous  then  that  there  should  be  such 
Of  knowledge  ;  that  whole  myriads  should 

unite  rdespite  : 

To    work    against    themselves    such  fell 
Should   come    in  frensy   and  in  drunken 

mirth, 
Impatient  to  put  out  the  only  light 
Of  liberty  that  yet  remains  on  earth  ! 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has 

tamed  [depart 

Great    nations,     how  ennobling  thoughts 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and 

desert  [unnamed 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears 
I  had,  my  country  ! — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 
But  when  I  think  of  thee,   and  what  thou 

art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
But  dearly   must   we  prize  thee  ;   we  who 

find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 
What  wonder  if  a  poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ? 


There  is  a  bondage  worse,   far  worse,  to 

bear  [and  wall, 

Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof,  and  floor, 
Pent  in,  a  tyrant's  solitary  thrall  ; 
'Tis  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air 
One  of  a  nation  who,  henceforth,  must  wear 
Their  fetters  in  their  souls.   For  who  could 

be, 
Who,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition,  free 
From   self-reproach,     reproach    which    he 

must  share 
With  human  nature  ?    Never  be  it  ours 
To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shjne, 
And    know    that   noble    feelings,    manly 

powers,  [and  pine, 

Instead  of  gathering  strength,  must  droop 
And  earth  with   all  her  pleasant  fruits  and 

flowers 
Fade,  and  participate  in  man's  decline 


October,  1803. 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries 
Had  blasted  France,  and  made  of  it  a  land 
Unfit  for  men  ,  and  that  in  one  great  band 
Her  sons  were  bursting  forth,  to  dwell  at 

ease. 
But  'tis  a  chosen  soil,  where  sun  and  breeze 


OCTOBER,    1803. 

These  times  touch  moneyed  worldlings 

with  dismay :  [air 

Even  rich  men,  brave  by  nature,  taint  the 
With  words  of  apprehension  and  despair  : 
While  tens  of  thousands,   thinking   on  the 

affray, 
Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day 
And  minds  not  stinted  or  unfilled  are  given, 
Sound,  healthy    children   of    the   Go-4    of 

heaven, 
Are  cheerful  as  the  rising  sun  in  May. 
What  do  we  gather  hence  but  firmer  faith 
That  every  gift  of  noble  origin        [breath  ? 
Is   breathed    upon    by    hope's    perpetual 
That  virtue  and  the  faculties  within 
Are  vital, — and  that  riches  are  akin 
To    fear,    to   change,    to  cowardice     and 

death  ! 


England  !  the  time  is  come  when  thou 

shouldst  wean 
Thy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food  ; 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  TABERTl. 


m 


The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood  ; 
Old  tilings  have   been  unsettled  ;  we  have 

seen  [been 

Fair  seedtime,  better  harvest    might  have 
But  for  thy  trespasses  ;  and  at  this  day, 
If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 
Aught   good   were  destined,  thou  wouldst 

step  between. 
England  !  all  nations  in  this  charge  agree  : 
Hut  worse,  more  ignorant  in  love  and  hate, 
Far,  far  more  abject  is  thine  enemy  : 
Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,   though 

the  freight 
Of  thy  offences  be  a  heavy  weight  : 
Oh,  grief !  that  earth's  best  f'opes  rest  all 

with  thee ! 


OCTOBER,   1803. 

When,    looking  on  the    present   face  of 

things, 
I  see  one  man,  of  men  the  meanest  too  ! 
Raised  up  to  sway  the  world,  to  do,  undo, 
With  mighty  nations  for  his  underlings, 
The  great  events  with  which  old  story  rings 
Seem  vain  and  hollow  ,  I  rind  nothing  great; 
Nothing  is  left  which  I  can  venerate  ; 
So  that  almost  a  doubt  within  me  springs 
Of  Providence,  such  emptiness  at  length 
Seems  at  the  heart  of  all  things.    But,  great 

God! 
I  measure  back  the  steps  which  I  have  trod; 
And  tremble,  seeing  whence  proceeds  the 

strength  [sublime 

Of  such  poor  instruments,  with  thoughts 
I  tremble  at  the  sorrow  of  the  time. 


TO   THE  MEN   OF   KENT.    OCTOBER,    1803. 

Vanguard  of  liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent, 
Ye  children  of  a  soil  that  doth  advance 
Her  haughty   brow   against   the  coast   of 

France, 
Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hardiment ! 
To  France  be  words  of  invitation  sent  ! 
They  from  their  fields  can  see  the  coun- 
tenance [lance, 
Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering 
And  hear  you  shouting  forth  your  brave 

intent. 
Left  single,  in  bold  parley,  ye  of  yore, 
Did  from  the  Norman  win  a  gallant  wreath; 
Confirmed   the   charters   that   were   yours 
before  ; —  [breath  ; 

No    parleying    now  !     In    Britain   is   one 
We  all  are  with  you  now  from  shore  to 

shore  : 
Ye  men  of  Kc\,  'tis  victory  or  death  ! 


ANTICIPATION.      OCTOBER,    1803. 

Shout,  for  a  mighty  victory  is  won  ! 

On  British  ground  the  invaders  are  laid  low: 

The  breath   of  Heaven  has  drifted  them 

like  snow, 
And  left  them  lying  in  the  silent  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again  !  the  work  is  done. 
Come  forth,  ye  old  men,  now  in  peacefin 

show, 
And  greet  your  sons !  drums  beat  and  trum- 
pets blow  ! 
Make  merry,  wives  !  ye  little  children,  stun 
Your  grandames'  ears  with  pleasure  of  your 
noise !  [must  be 

Clap,    infants,   clap  your  hands  !     Divine 
That  triumph,   when   the  very  worst,    the 
pain,  [slain, 

And  even   the   prospect   of  our  brethren 
Had    something    in    it    which   the   heart 

enjoys : — 
In  glory  will  they  sleep  and  endless  sanctity. 


NOVEMBER,    1806. 

Another  year  ! — another  deadly  blow  ! 
Another  mighty  empire  overthrown  ! 
And  we  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone  ; 
The  last  that  dare  to  struggle  with  the  fos. 
'Tis  well !  from  this  day  forward  we  shall 

know 
That  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  besought; 
That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be 

wrought,  [low. 

That  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid 
O  dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth   not 

cheer  ! 
We  shall  exult,  if  they  who  rule  the  land 
Be  men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear, 
Wise,  upright,  valiant ;  not  a  servile  band. 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they 

fear, 
And  honour  which  they  do  not  understand. 


ODE. 


Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine, 
And   binds    her    temples    with    the  civic 

wreath  ? 
What  joy  to  read  the  promise  of  her  mien  ! 
How  sweet  to  rest  her  wide-spread  wings 
beneath  ! 

But  they  are  ever  playing, 
And  twinkling  in  the  light, 
And  if  a  breeze  be  straying, 
That  breeze  she  will  invite  ; 
And  stands  on  tiptoe,  conscious  she  is  fair, 
And  calls  a  look  of  love  into  her  face, 


174 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


And  spreads  her  arms— as  if  the  general 

air 
Alone  could  satisfy  her  wide  embrace. 
Melt,  principalities,  before  her  melt ! 
Her  love  ye  hailed— her  wrath  have  felt ; 
But  she  through  many  a  change  of  form 
hath  gone,  [creature, 

And   stands  amidst  you   now,   an   armed 
Whose  panoply  is  not  a  thing  put  on, 
But  the  live  scales  of  a  portentous  nature; 
That,  having  wrought  its  way  from  birth  to 
..birth'  [to  the  earth! 

Stalks  round— abhorred  by  Heaven,  a  terror 

I  marked  the  breathings  of  her  dragon 
crest ; 
My  soul,  a  sorrowful  interpreter, 
In  many  a  midnight  vision  bowed 
Before  the  ominous  aspect  of  her  spear  ; 
Whether  the  mighty  beam,  in  scorn  upheld, 
Threatened   her  foes,— or,   pompously  at 

rest, 
Seemed  to  bisect  her  orbed  shield, 
As  stretches  a  blue  bar  of  solid  cloud 
Across  the  setting  sun,   and  through  the 
fiery  west. 


If,  when  that  interference  hath  relieved  him, 
He  must  sink  down  to  languish 

In  worse  than  former  helplessness— and  lie 
Till  the  caves  roar, — and,  imbecility 
Again  engendering  anguish, 

The  same  weak  wish  returns,  that  had 
before  deceived  him. 

But  Thou,  Supreme  Disposer !  mayst  not 

speed 
The  course  of  things,  and  change  the  creed, 
Which  hath  been  held  aloft  before  men's 

sight 
Since  the  first  framing  of  societies, 
Whether,  as  bards  have  told  in  ancient 

song, 
Built  up  by  soft  seducing  harmonies  ; 
Or  prest  together  by  the  appetite, 

And  by  the  power,  of  wrong  ! 


So  did  she  daunt  the  earth,  and  God  defy! 
And,  wheresoe'ershespreadhersovereignty, 
Pollution  tainted  all  that  was  most  pure. 
Have  we  not  known— and  live  we  not  to 

tell- 
That  Justice  seemed  to  hear  her  final  knell  ? 
Faith  buried  deeper  in  her  own  deep  breast 
Herstores,  and  sighed  to  find  them  insecure! 
And  Hope  was  maddened  by  the  drops 
that  fell  [lived  rest: 

From  shades,  her  chosen  place  of  short- 
Shame  followed  shame— and  woe  supplan- 
ted woe — 
Is  this  the  only  change  that  time  can  show? 
How   long  shall  vengeance    sleep?      Ye 

patient  heavens,  how  long  ? 
Infirm  ejaculation  !  from  the  tongue 
Of  nations  wanting  virtue  to  be  strong 
Up  to  the  measure  of  accorded  might, 
And  daring  not  to  feel  the  majesty  of  right. 

Weak  spirits  are  there— who  would  ask, 
Upon  the  pressure  of  a  painful  thing, 
The  lion's  sinews,  or  the  eagle's  wing  ; 
Or  let  their  wishes  loose,  in  forest  glade, 
Among  the  lurking  powers 
Of  herbs  and  lowly  flowers, 
Or  seek,  from  saints  above,  miraculous  aid; 
That  man  may  be  accomplished  for  a  task 
Which  his  own  nature  hath  enjoined— and 
why? 


ON  A  CELEBRATED    EVENT   IN  ANCIENT 
HISTORY. 

A    Roman    master    stands    on    Grecian 
ground,  [games 

And  to  the  concourse  of  the  Isthmian 
He,  by  his  herald's  voice,  aloud  proclaims 
The  liberty  of  Greece  !— the  words  rebound 
Until  all  voices  in  one  voice  are  drowned  ; 
Glad  acclamation  by  which  air  was  rent ! 
And  birds,  high  flying  in  the  element, 
Dropped  to  the  earth,    astonished   at   the 

sound ! 
A  melancholy  echo  of  that  noise 
Doth  sometimes  hang  on  musing  fancy's 

,e?r:  Tdear ; 

Ah  !  that  a  conqucroj-'s  word  should  be  so 
Ah  !  that  a  boon  could  shed  such  rapturous 

joys  ! 
A  gift  of  that  which  is  not  to  be  given 
By  all  the  blended   powers   of  earth  and 

heaven. 


UPON   THE  SAME  EVENT. 

When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of 

morn 
The  tidings  passed  of  servitude  repealed, 
And  of  that  joy  which  shook  the  Isthmian 

field, 
The  rough  /Etolians  smiled  with  bitter  scom . 
"  Tis  known,"  cried  they,    "that  he,  who 

would  adorn 
His  envied  temples  with  the  Isthmian  crown, 
Must  either  win,  through  effort  of  his  own. 
The  prize,  or  be  content  to  see  it  worn 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


\~r. 


By  more  deserving  brows. — Yet  so  ye  prop, 
Sons  of  the  brave  who  fought  at  Marathon! 
Your  feeble  spirits.     Greece  her  head  hath 

bowed, 
As  if  the  wreath  of  liberty  thereon 
Would  fix  itself  as  smoothly  as  a  cloud, 
Which,  at  Jove's  will,  descends  on  Pelion's 

top." 

TO  THOMAS  CLARKSON,  ON  THE  FINAL 
PASSING  OF  THE  BILL  FOR  THE 
ABOLITION  OF  THE  SLAVE  TRADE, 
MARCH,    1807. 

Clarkson  !   it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to 

climb :  [thee 

How  toilsome,  nay,  how  dire  it  was,  by 
Is  known, — by  none,  perhaps,  so  feelingly; 
But    thou,    who,    starting    in   thy  fervent 

prime, 
Didst  first  lead  forth  this  pilgrimage  sublime, 
Hast  heard  the  constant  voice  its  charge 

repeat,  [seat, 

Which,  out  of  thy  young  heart's  oracular 
First  roused  thee. — Oh,  true  yoke-fellow  of 

Time 
With  unabating  effort,  see,  the  palm 
Is  won,  and  by  all  nations  shall  be  worn  ! 
The  bloody  writing  is  for  ever  torn, 
And  thou  henceforth  ehalt  have  a  good 

man's  calm, 
A  great  man's  happiness ;  thy  zeal  shall  find 
Repose  at  length,   firm  friend  of  human 

kind! 


A  PROPHECY.   FEBRUARY,  1807. 

High  deeds,  O  Germans,  are  to  come  from 

you  !  [found, 

Thus  in  your  books  the  record  shall  be 
"  A  watchword  was  pronounced,  a  potent 

sound,  [dew 

Arminius  ! — all   the  people   quaked   like 
Stirred  by  the  breeze — they  rose  a  nation, 

true, 
True  to  herself— the  mighty  Germany, 
She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  sea, 
She  rose,  and  off  at  once  the  yoke  she 

threw.  [trance; 

All  power  was  given  her  in  the  dreadful 
Those  new-born  kings  she  withered  like  a 

flame."  [shame 

Woe  to  them  all  !  but  heaviest  woe  and 
To  that  Bavarian  who  did  first  advance 
His  banner  in  accursed  league  with  France, 
First  open  traitor  to  a  sacred  name  ! 


Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 
Through   the  gray   west  ;   and   lo  1   these 

waters,  steeled 
By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 
A  vivid  repetition  of  the  stars  ; 
Jove — Venus — and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars, 
Amid  his  fellows  beauteously  revealed 
At  happy  distance  from  earth's  groaning 

field, 
Where  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 
Is  it  a  mirror? — or  the  nether  sphere 
Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  it  feeds 
Its  own  calm  fires? — But  list!  a  voice   is 

near  ;  [the  reeds, 

Great  Pan  himself  low-whispering  through 
"  Be  thankful,  thou  ;  for  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here  !" 


Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes 
The  genuine   mien  and   character  would 

trace 
Of  the  rash  spirit  that  still  holds  her  place, 
Prompting  the  world's  audacious  vanities  ! 
See,  at  her  call,  the  Tower  of  Babel  rise  •• 
The  Pyramid  extend  its  monstrous  base' 
For  some  aspirant  of  our  short-lived  rac 
Anxious  an  airy  name  to  immortalize. 
There,  too,  ere  wiles  and  politic  dispute 
Gave  specious  colouring  to  aim  and  actf 
See  the  first  mighty  hunter  leave  the  brute 
To  chase  mankind,    with  men  in   armies 

packed 
For  his  field-pastime,  high  and  absolute, 
While,   to   dislodge   his   game,    cities   are 

sacked  ! 


COMPOSED  WHILE  THE  AUTHOR  WAS 
ENGAGED  IN  WRITING  A  TRACT 
OCCASIONED  BY  THE  CONVENTION 
OF  CINTRA,    1808. 

Not  'mid  the  world's  vain  objects  !  that 

enslave  [vaunted  skill 

The    free-born    soul, — that    world   whose 
In  selfish  interest  perverts  the  will, 
Whose  factions  lead  astray  the  wise  and 

brave  ; 
Not  there!  but  in  dark  wood  and  rocky  cave, 
And  hollow  vale  which  foaming  torrents  fill 
With  omnipresent  murmur  as  they  rave 
Down  their  steep  beds,  that  never  shall  be 

still : 
Here,  mighty  nature !  in  this  school  sublime 
I  weigh  the  hopes  and  fears  of  suffering 

Spain  : 
For  her  consult  the  auguries  of  time, 


178 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


And  through  the  human  heart  explore  my 

way,  [may, 

And  look  and  listen — gathering,  whence  I 

Triumph,  and  thoughts  no  bondage  can 

restrain. 

COMPOSED   AT  THE  SAME  TIME   AND  ON 
THE  SAME   OCCASION. 

I  dropped  my  pen  :— and  listened  to  the 

wind 
That  sang  of  trees  up-torn  and  vessels  tost ; 
A  midnight  harmony,  and  wholly  lost 
To  the  general  sense  of  men  by  chains  con- 
fined 
Of  business,  care,  or  pleasure, — or  resigned 
To  timely  sleep.     Thought  I,  the  impas- 
sioned strain, 
Which,  without  aid  of  numbers,  I  sustain, 
Like  acceptation  from  the  world  will  find. 
Yet  some  with  apprehensive  ear  shall  drink 
A  dirge  devoutly  breathed  o'er  sorrows  past, 
And  to   the  attendant   promise  will  give 

heed — 
The  prophecy, — like  that  of  this  wild  blast, 
Which,  while  it  makes  the  heart  with  sad- 
ness shrink,  [ceed. 
Tells  also  of  bright  calms  that  shall  suc- 


Of  mortal  parents  is  the  hero  born 

By  whom  the  undaunted  Tyrolese  are  led  ? 

Or  is  it  Tell's  great  spirit,  from  the  dead 

Returned  to  animate  an  age  forlorn  ? 

He  comes  like  Phcebus  through  the  gates 

of  morn 
When  dreary  darkness  is  discomfited  : 
Yet  mark  his  modest  state  !  upon  his  head, 
That  simple  crest,  a  heron's  plume  is  worn. 
O  liberty  !  they  stagger  at  the  shock  ; 
The  murderers  are  aghast ;  they  strive  to 

flee,  [rock 

And   half  their  host  is  buried : — rock  on 
Descends  : — beneath  this  godlike  warrior, 

see  ! 
Hills,  torrents,  woods,  embodied  to  bemock 
The  tyrant,  and  confound  his  cruelty. 


Advance — come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean 

ground,  [tamed, 

Dear   liberty !   stern  nymph   of    soul  un- 

Sweet  nymph,  oh,  rightly  of  the  mountains 

named  [to  mound 

Through  the  long  chain  of  Alps  from  mound 

And    o'er   the  eternal   snows,    like  echo, 

bound, — 


Like  echo,  when  the  hunter-train  at  dawn 
Have    roused    her  from    her  sleep :   and 

forest-lawn,  [resound 

Cliffs,  woods,  and  caves  her  viewless  steps 
And  babble  of  her  pastime  ! — On,  dread 

power  ! 
With  such  invisible  motion  speed  thy  flight, 
Through  hanging    clouds,    from    craggy 

height  to  height,  [herdsman's  bower, 
Through  the  green  vales  and  through  the 
That  all  the  Alps  may  gladden  in  thy 

might, 
Here,  there,  and  in  all  places  at  one  hour. 


FEELINGS  OF  THE  TYROLESE. 

The  land  we  from  our  fathers  had  in  trust, 
And  to  our  children  will  transmit,  or  die  : 
This  is  our  maxim,  this  our  piety  ; 
And  God  and  nature  say  that  it  is  just. 
That  which  we  would  perform  in  arms — we 

must ! 
We  read  the  dictate  in  the  infant's  eye  ; 
In  the  wife's  smile  ;  and  in  the  placid  sky  ; 
And,  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 
Of  them  that  were  before  us. — Sing  aloud 
Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart ! 
Give,  herds  and  flocks,  your  voices  to  the 

wind  ! 
While  we  go  forth,  a  self-devoted  crowd, 
With  weapons  in  the  fearless  hand,  to  assert 
Our  virtue   and  to  vindicate  mankind. 


Alas  !  what  boots  the  long,  laborious  quest 
Of  moral  prudence,  sought  through  good 

and  ill ; 
Or  pains  abstruse — to  elevate  the  will, 
And  lead  us  on  to  that  transcendent  rest 
Where  every  passion  shall  the  sway  attest 
Of  reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill ; 
What  is  it,  but  a  vain  and  curious  skill, 
If  sapient  Germany  must  lie  deprest, 
Beneath  the  brutal  sword  ?     Her  haughty 

schools  [say, 

Shall  blush  ;  and  may  not  we  with  sorrow 
A  few  strong  instincts  and  a  few  plain  rules, 
Among  the  herdsmen  of  the  Alps,  have 

wrought 
More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy  day 
Than  all  the  pride  of  intellect  and  thought  ? 


And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  dales, 
There,  and  there  only,  that  the  heart  if 

true? 
And,  rising  to  repel  or  to  subdue, 
Is  it  by  rocks  and  woods  that  man  prevails? 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


177 


Ah,  no !  though  nature's  dread  protection 

fails, 
There  is  a  bulwark  in  the  soul.     This  knew 
Iberian  burghers  when  the  sword  they  drew 
In  Zaragoza,  naked  to  the  gales 
Of  fiercely-breathing  war.  The  truth  was  felt 
Ry  Palafox,  and  manj  a  brave  compeer, 
Like  him  of  noble  birth  and  noble  mind  ; 
By  ladies,  meek-eyed  women  without  fear  ; 
And  wanderers  of  the  street,   to  whom  is 

dealt 
The  bread  which  without  industry  they  find. 


O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on 

plain, 
Dwells  in  the  affections  and  the  soul  of  man 
A  godhead,  like  the  universal  Pan, 
But  more  exalted,  with  a  brighter  train. 
And  shall  his  bounty  be  dispensed  in  vain, 
Showered  equally  on  city  and  on  field, 
And   neither  hope  nor  steadfast  promise  ] 

yield 
In  these  usurping  times  of  fear  and  pain  ? 
Such   doom   awaits    us.     Nay,    forbid   it 

Heaven  !  [laws 

We  know  the   arduous  strife,  the  eternal 
To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given, 
High  sacrifice,  and  labour  without  pause, 
Even  to  the  death  : — else  wherefore  should 

the  eye 
Of  man  converse  with  immortality  ? 


ON   THE   FINAL  SUBMISSION    OF  THE 
TYROLESE. 

It  was  a  moral  end  for  which  they  fought ; 
Else  how,  when  mighty  thrones  were  put 

to  shame,  [an  aim, 

Could  they,  poor  shepherds,  have  preserved 
A  resolution,  or  enlivening  thought? 
Nor  hath   that    moral  good  been  vainly 

sought ; 
For  in  their  magnanimity  and  fame 
Powers  have  they  left,   an  impulse  and  a 

claim  [bought. 

Which    neither    can    be    overturned    nor 
Sleep,  warriors,   sleep  !  among  your  hills 

repose  ! 
We  know  that  ye,  beneath  the  stern  control 
Of  awful  prudence,  keep  the  unvanquished 

soul. 
And,  when,  impatient  of  her  guilt  and  woes, 
Europe    breaks    forth  ;  then,   shepherds ! 

shall  ye  rise 
For  perfect  triumph  o'er  your  enemies. 


Hail,  Zaragoza  !     If  with  unwet  eye 
We  can  approach,  thy  sorrow  to  behold. 
Yet  is  the  heart  not  pitiless  nor  cold  ; 
Such  spectacle  demands  not  teai  or  sigh. 
These  desolate  remains  are  trophies  high 
Of  more  than  martial  courage  in  the  breast 
Of  peaceful  civic  virtue  :  they  atttest 
Thy  matchless  worth  to  all  posterity. 
Blood  flowed  before  thy  sight  without  re- 
morse ;  [heaved 
Disease   consumed    thy   vitals  ;    war    up- 
The  ground  beneath   thee   with  volcanic 

force ; 
Dread  trials  !  yet  encountered  and  sustained 
Till  not  a  wreck  of  help  or  hope  remained, 
And  law  was  from  necessity  received. 


Say,  what  is  honour? — Tis  the  finest  sense 
Of  justice  which   the   human   mind   can 

frame, 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim, 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done.     When  lawless  violence 
A  kingdom  doth  assault,  and  in  the  scale 
Of  perilous  war  her  weightiest  armies  fail, 
Honour  is  hopeful  elevation — whence 
Glory,  and  triumph.     Yet  with  politic  skill 
Endangered  states  may  yield  to  terms  un- 
just, 
Stoop  their  proud  heads,  but  not  unto  the 

dust, — 
A  foe's  most  favourite  purpose  to  fulfil : 
Happy  occasions  oft  by  self-mistrust 
Are  forfeited  ;  but  infamy  doth  kill. 


The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain, 
An  empty  noise  of  death  the  battle's  roar, 
If  vital  hope  be  wanting  to  restore, 
Or  fortitude  be  wanting  to  sustain, 
Armies  or  kingdoms.     We  have  heard  a 

strain  [bore 

Of  triumph,   how  the  labouring    Danube 
A  weight  of  hostile  corses  :  drenched  with 

gore 
Were  the  wide  fields,  the  hamlets  heaped 

with  slain. 
Yet  see,  the  mighty  tumult  overpast, 
Austria  a  daughter  of  her  throne  hath  sold  ! 
And  her  Tyrolean  champion  we  behold 
Murdered  like  one  ashore   by   shipwreck 

cast,  [bold, 

Murdered  without  relief.      Oh  !  blind  as 
To  think  that  such  assurance  can  stand 

fast! 


m 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERT1. 


Brave  Schill !  by  death  delivered,  take  thy 
flight  i  [rest 

From    Prussia's   timid   region.      Go,  and 
With  heroes  'mid  the  islands  of  the  blest, 
Or  in  the  fields  of  empyrean  light. 
A  meteor  wert  thou  in  a  darksome  night ; 
Yet  shall  thy  name  conspicuous  and"  sub- 
lime, 
Stand  in  the  spacious  firmament  of  time, 
Fixed  as  a  star  :  such  glory  is  thy  right. 
Alas  !  it  may  not  be  :  for  earthly  fame 
Is  fortune's  frail  dependent  ;  yet  there  lives 
A  judge,   who,  as   man  claims  by  merit, 

gives  ; 
To  whose  all-pondering  mind  a  noble  aim, 
Faithfully  kept,  is  as  a  noble  deed  : 
In  whose  pure  sight  all  virtue  doth  succeed. 


Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate, 
Who  never  did  to' fortune  bend  the  knee  ; 
Who  slighted  fear,  rejected  steadfastly 
Temptation  ;  and  whose  kingly  name  and 

state 
Have  "  perished  by  his  choice,  and  not  his 

fate  !" 
Hence  lives  he,  to  his  inner  self  endeared  ; 
And  hence,  wherever  virtue  is  revered, 
He  sits  a  more  exalted  potentate, 
Throned   in   the  hearts  of  men.     Should 

Heaven  ordain 
That  this  great  servant  of  a  righteous  cause 
Must  still  have  sad  or  vexing  thoughts  to 

endure, 
Yet  may  a  sympathising  spirit  pause, 
Admonished  by  these  truths,  and  quench 

all  pain 
In  thankful  joy  and  gratulation  pure. 


Look  now  on  that  adventurer  who  hath 

paid 
His  vows  to  fortune  ;  who,  in  cruel  slight 
Of  virtuous  hope,  of  liberty,  and  right? 
Hath  followed  wheresoe'er  a  way  was  made 
By  the   blind   goddess  ;— ruthless,    undis- 
mayed ; 
And  so   hath  gained  at  length  a  prospe- 
rous height 
Round  which  the  elements  of  worldly  might 
Beneath  his  haughty  feet,  like  clouds   are 
n.     1&ld.1  farce  ! 

On,  joyless  power  that  stands  by  lawless 
Curses  are   his  dire   portion,    scorn  and 
hate, 


Internal  darkness  and  unquiet  breath; 
And,  if  old  judgments  keep  their  sacred 
course,  [cipitate 

Him  from  that  height  shall  Heaven  pre- 
By  violent  and  ignominious  death. 


Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and 

cheer 
The  captive  chieftain,  by  a  tyrant's  doom, 
Forced  to  descend  alive  into  his  tomb, 
A  dungeon  dark  !  where  he  must  waste  the 
,      y,ear-  Tdear; 

And  he  cut  off  from  all  his  heart  holds 
What  time  his  injured  country  is  a  stage 
Whereon  deliberate  valour  and  the  rage 
Of  righteous  vengeance  side  by  side  appear, 
Filling    from    morn   to  night    the   heroic 

scene 
With  deeds  of  hope  and  everlasting  praise  : 
Say  can  he  think  of  this  with  mind  serene 
And  silent  fetters  ?    Yes,  if  visions  bright 
Shine  on  his  soul,  reflected  from  the  days 
When  he  himself  was  tried  in  open  light. 


Ah  !  where  is  Palafox?    Nor  tongue  nor 

pen 
Reports  of  him,  his  dwelling  or  his  grave  I 
Does  yet  the  unheard-of  vessel  ride  the 

wave  ? 
Or  is  she  swallowed  up,  remote  from  ken 
Of  pitying  human  nature?    Once  again 
Methinks  that  we  shall  hail  thee,  champion 

brave, 
Redeemed  to  baffle  that  imperial  slave 
And  through  all  Europe  cheer  desponding 

wn,men    u       ,  Night 

With  new-born  hope.     Unbounded  is  the 
Of  martyrdom,  and  fortitude,  and  right. 
Hark,   how  thy  country  triumphs  !— Smil- 
mSh  [gleams 

The  eternal  looks  upon  her  sword  that 
Like  his  own  lightning,  over  mountains, 
~      hlSh'  [streams! 

On  rampart,  and   the   banks  of   all    her 


In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite, 
The  rude  Biscayans,  when  their  children 

lie 
Dead  in  the  sinless  time  of  infancy, 
Att're  l.he  peaceful  corse  in  vestments  white ; 
And,    in    like    sign    of   cloudless  triumph 

bright,  r 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


170 


They  bind  the  unoffending  creature's  brows 
With  happy  garlands   of  the  pure  white 

rose  ; 
This  done,  a  festal  company  unite 
In  choral  song ;    and,   while  the  uplifted 

cross 
Of  Jesus  goes  before,  the  child  is  borne 
Uncovered  to  his  grave.     Her  piteous  loss 
The  lonesome  mother  cannot  choose  but 

mourn  ; 
Yet  soon  by  Christian  faith  is  grief  subdued, 
And  joy  attends  upon  her  fortitude. 


FEELINGS    OF     A     NOBLE     BISCAYAN     AT 
ONE  OF  THESE   FUNERALS.       l8lO. 

Yet,  yet,   Biscayans !  we  must  meet  our 

foes 
With  firmer  soul,  yet  labour  to  regain 
Our  ancient  freedom  ;    else  'twere  worse 

than  vain 
To  gather  round  the  bier  these  festal  shows. 
A  garland  fashioned  of  the  pure  white  rose 
Becomes  not  one  whose  father  is  a  slave  : 
Oh  !  bear  the  infant  covered  to  his  grave  ! 
These  venerable  mountains  now  inclose 
A  people  sunk  in  apathy  and  fear. 
If  this  endure,  farewell,  for  us,  all  good  ! 
The  awful  light  of  heavenly  innocence 
Will  fail  to  illuminate  the  infant's  bier  ; 
And  guilt  and    shame,  from  which  is  no 

defence, 
Descend  on  all  that  issues  from  our  blood. 


THE    OAK   OF   GUERNICA. 

The  ancient  oak  of  Guernica,  says  Laborde  in 
his  account  of  Biscay,  is  the  most  venerable 
natural  monument.  Ferdinand  and  Isabella, 
in  the  year  1476,  after  hearing  mass  in  the 
Church  of  Santa  Maria  de  la  Antigua,  re- 
paired to  this  tree,  under  which  they  swore  to 
the  Biscayans  to  maintain  the'ir/ueros  (privi- 
leges). What  other  interest  belongs  to  it  in 
the  minds  of  this  people  will  appear  from  the 
following 

SUPPOSED  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SAME.      1810. 

Oak  of  Guernica  !  Tree  of  holier  power 
Than  that  which  in  Dodona  did  enshrine 
(So  faith  too  fondly  deemed)  a  voice  divine, 
Heard  from  the  depths  of  its  aerial  bower, 
How  canst  thou  flourish  at  this  blighting 
hour?  [to  thee, 

What  hope,  what  joy  can  sunshine  bring 
Or  the  soft  breezes  from  the  Atlantic  sea, 


The  dewsof  morn,  or  April's  tender  shower? 
Stroke  merciful  and  welcome  would  that  be 
Which  should  extend  thy  branches  on  the 

ground, 
If  never  more  within  their  shady  round 
Those  lofty-minded  law-givers  shall  meet, 
Peasant  and  lord,  in  their  appointed  seat, 
Guardians  of  Biscay's  ancient  liberty. 


INDIGNATION     OF     A     HIGH-MINDED 
SPANIARD.       l8lO. 

We  can  endure  that  he  should  waste  our 

lands,  •  [flame 

Despoil  our  temples,   and  by  sword   and 
Return  us  to  the  dust  from  which  we  came  ; 
Such  food  a  tyrant's  appetite  demands  : 
And  we  can  brook  the  thought  that  by  his 

hands 
Spain  may  be  overpowered,  and  he  possess, 
For  his  delight,  a  solemn  wilderness, 
Where  all  the  brave  lie  dead.    But  when  of 

bands, 
Whichhe  will  break  forus,  he  dares  to  speak, 
Of  benefits,  and  of  a  future  day 
When  our  enlightened  minds  shall  bless  his 

sway,  [weak  ; 

Then,  the  strained  heart  of  fortitude  proves 
Our  groans,  our  blushes,  our  pale  cheeks 

declare  [strength  to  bear. 

That  he  has  power  to  inflict  what  we  lack 


Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 

In  men  of  low  degree,  all  smooth  pretence  ! 

I  better  like  a  blunt  indifference 

And  self-respecting  slowness,  disinclined 

To  win  me  at  first  sight  :   and  be  there 

joined  [reserve, 

Patience  and  temperance  with  this  high 
Honour  that  knows  the  path  and  will  not 

swerve  ; 
Affections,  which,  if  put  to  proof,  are  kind  ; 
And  piety  towards  God.     Such  men  of  old 
Were     England's    native    growth  ;     and, 

throughout  Spain, 
Forests  of  such  do  at  this  day  remain  ; 
Then  for  that  country  let   our  hopes  be 

bold; 
For  matched  with  these  shall  policy  prove 

vain,  [gold. 

Her  arts,  her  strength,  her  iron,  and  her 


O'erweening  statesmen  have  full  long 

relied 
On  fleets  and  armies,  and  external  wealth : 


180 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


But  from  within  proceeds  a  nation's  health  ; 
Which   shall   not   fail,  though  poor  men 

cleave  with  pride 
To  the  paternal  floor  ;  or  turn  aside, 
In  the  thronged  city,  from  the  walks  of  gain, 
As  being  all  unworthy  to  detain 
A  soul  by  contemplation  sanctified. 
There  are  who  cannot  languish  in  this  strife, 
Spaniards  of  every  rank,  by  whom  the  good 
Of  such  high  course  was  felt  and  under- 
stood ;  fa  life, 
Who  to  their  country's  cause  have  bound 
Erewhile  by  solemn  consecration  given 
To  labour,  and  to  prayer,  to  nature,  and  to 
heaven.* 


THE     FRENCH     AND    THE    SPANISH 
GUERILLAS. 

Hunger,  and   sultry  heat,   and   nipping 

blast  [by  night 

From  bleak  hill-top,  and  length  of  march 

Through  heavy  swamp,  or  over  snow-clad 

height,  [past, 

These  hardships  ill  sustained,  these  dangers 

The  roving  Spanish  bands  are  reached  at 

last,  [flight 

Charged,  and  dispersed  like  foam  ;  but  as  a 

Of  scattered  quails  by  signs  to  reunite, 

So  these, — and,  heard  of  once  again,  are 

chased 
With  combinations  of  long-practised  art 
And  newly-kindled  hope  ;  but  they  are  fled, 
Gone  are  they,  viewless  as  the  buried  dead  ; 
Where  now  ? — Their  sword  is  at  the  foe- 
man's  heart !  [thwart, 
And  thus  from  year  to  year  his  walk  thev 
And  hang  like  dreams  around  his  guilty 
bed. 


SPANISH   GUERILLAS.      l8ll. 

They  seek,  are  sought ;  to  daily  battle  led, 
Shrink  not,   though  far   outnumbered  by 

their  foes  : 
For  they  have  learnt  to  open  and  to  close 
The  ridges  of  grim  war  ;  and  at  their  head 
Are  captains  such  as  erst  their  country  bred 
Or   fostered,    self-supported   chiefs, — like 

those 
Whom  hardy  Rome  was  fearful  to  oppose, 
Whose  desperate  shock  the  Carthaginian 

fled. 


*  See  Laborde's  character  of  the  Spanish  peo- 
ple :  from  him  the  sentiment  of  these  last  two 
lines  is  taken. 


In  one  who  lived  unknown  a  shepherd's  life 
Redoubted  Viriatus  breathes  again  ; 
And  Mina,  nourished  in  the  studious  shade , 
With  that  great  leader*  vies,  who,  sick  of 

strife 
And  bloodshed,  longed  in  quiet  to  be  laid 
In  some  green  island  of  the  western  main. 


The  power  of  armies  is  a  visible  thing, 
Formal,    and  circumscribed  in  time   and 

space ;  [trace 

But   who  the   limits  of  that  power  shall 
Which  a  brave  people  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide,  at  will, — for  freedom  combating, 
By  just  revenge  inflamed  ?    No  foot  may 

chase, 
No  eye  can  follow  to  a  fatal  place 
That  power,    that   spirit,  whether  on   the 

wing  [wind 

Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  like  the 
Within  its  awful  caves. — From  year  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and 

near ; 
No  craft  this  subtle  element  can  bind, 
Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
In  every  nook  a  lip  that  it  may  cheer. 


Here  pause  :   the  poet  claims  at  least  this 

praise, 
That  virtuous  liberty  hath  been  the  scope 
Of  his  pure  song  which  did  not  shrink  from 

hope 
In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days  ; 
From  hope,  the  paramount  duty  that  Heaven 

lays,  [heart. 

For  its   own  honour,   on  man's  suffering 
Never  may  from  our  souls  one  truth  depart, 
That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 
On  prosperous  tyrants  with  a  dazzled  eye  ; 
Nor,  touched  with  due  abhorrence  of  their 

guilt  [spilt, 

For  whose  dire  ends  tears  flow,  and  blood  is 
And  justice  labours  in  extremity, 
Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built, 
O  wretched  man,  the  throne  of  tyranny  ! 


THE   FRENCH  ARMY   IN    RUSSIA.      1812-13. 

Humanity,  delighting  to  behold 
A  fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay, 


Sertorius. 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


181 


Hath  painted  winter  like  a  traveller— old, 
Propped  on  a  staff— and,  through  the  sullen 

day, 
In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o'er  the  plain, 
As  though  his  weakness  were  disturbed  by 

pain  : 
Or,  if  a  justor  fancy  should  allow 
An  undisputed  symbol  of  command, 
The  chosen  sceptre  is  a  withered  bough, 
Infirmly  grasped  within  a  palsied  hand. 
These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn, 
But  mighty  winter  the  device  shall  scorn. 

For  he  it  was — dread  winter  !  who  beset, 
Flinging  round  van  and  rear  his  ghastly  net, 
That  host,— when  from  the  regions  of  the 

pole 
Theyshrunk,  insane  ambition's  barren  goal, 
That  host,  as  huge  and  strong  as  e'er  defied 
Their  God,  and  placed  their  trust  in  human 

pride  ! 
As  fathers  persecute  rebellious  sons, 
He  smote   the  blossoms  of  their  warrior 

youth  ; 
He  called  on  frost's  inexorable  tooth 
Life  to  consume  in  manhood's  firmest  hold  ; 
Nor  spared  the  reverend  blood  that  feebly 

runs  ; 
For  why,  unless  for  liberty  enrolled 
And  sacred  home,  ah  !  why  should  hoary 

age  be  bold  ? 

Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed, 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  monarch 
freed,  [kind. 

And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his 
And  bade  the  snow  their  ample  backs  be- 
stride, 

And  to  the  battle  ride. 
No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt, 
No  courage  can  repel  the  dire  assault  ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink — and,  in  one  instant, 
find  [descry, 

Burial   and   death :    look   for    them— and 
When  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear  blue 

sky, 
A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  vacancy  ! 


ON  THE  SAME   OCCASION. 

Ye  storms,   resound  the  praises  of  your 

king  ! 
And  ve  mild  seasons— in  a  sunny  clime, 
Midway  on  some  high  hill,  while  father 

Time 
Looks  on  delighted— meet  in  festal  ring, 


And  loud  and  long  of  winter's  triumph  sing! 
Sing  ye,  with  blossoms  crowned,  and  fruits, 

and  flowers,  [showers. 

Of  winter's  breath  surcharged  with  sleety 
And  the  dire  flapping  of  his  hoary  wing  ! 
Knit  the  blithe  dance  upon  the  soft  green 

grass  ;  [your  gain  ; 

With  feet,  hands,  eyes,  looks,  lips,  report 
Whisper  it  to  the  billows  of  the  main, 
And  to  the  aerial  zephyrs  as  they  pass, 
That  old  decrepit  winter — He  hath  slain, 
That  host,  which  rendered  all  your  bounties 

vain  ! 
By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a  blaze 
Of  dreadful  sacrifice;  by  Russian  blood 
Lavished   in   fight   with  desperate   hardi- 
hood; 
The  unfeeling  elements  no  claim  shall  raise 
To  rob  our  human  nature  of  just  praise 
For  what  she  did  and  suffered.     Pledges 
Of  a  deliverance  absolute  and  pure     [sure 
She  gave,  if  faith  might  tread  the  beaten 

ways  [High 

Of  Providence.     But  now   did  the  Most 
Exalt  his  still  small  voice;— to  quell  that 

host 
Gathered  his  Power,  a  manifest  Ally; 
He  whose  heaped  waves  confounded  the 

proud  boast 
Of  Pharaoh,  said  to  Famine,   Snow,  and 

Frost, 
Finish  the  strife  by  deadliest  victory ! 


THE  GERMANS   ON  THE  HEIGHTS   OF 

HOCKHEIM. 

Abruptly  paused  the    strife; — the    field 

throughout 
Resting  upon  his  arms  each  warrior  stood, 
Checked  in  the  very  act  and  deed  of  blood, 
With  breath  suspended,    like  a  listening 

scout. 
O  silence !  thou  wert  mother  of  a  shout, 
That  through  the    texture  of  yon  azure 

dome 
Cleaves  its  glad  way,  a  cry  of  harvest-home 
Uttered  to  Heaven  in  ecstasy  devout  ! 
The  barrier  Rhine  hath  flashed,    through 

battle-smoke,  [view, 

On   men  who   gaze  heart-smitten  by  the 
As  if  all  Germany  had  felt  the  shock  ! 
Fly,  wretched  Gauls  !  ere  they  the  charge 

renew  [the  yoke) 

Who  have  seen  (themselves  delivered  from 
The    unconquerable    stream    his    course 

pursue.* 


The  event  is  thus  recorded  in  the  journals  of 


182 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


NOVEMBER,   1813. 

Now  that   all   hearts   are  glad,  all  faces 
bright,  [flow 

Our  aged  sovereign  sits;   to  the  ebb  and 
Of  states  and  kingdoms,  to  their  joy  or  woe, 
Insensible-  he  sits  deprived  of  sight, 
And  lamentably  wrapt  in  twofold  night, 
Whom   no   weak  hopes  deceived;    whose 

mind  ensued. 
Through  perilous  war,  with  regal  fortitude, 
Peace  that  should  claim  respect  from  law- 
less might.  [divine 
Dread    King   of    kings,    vouchsafe   a  ray 
To  his  forlorn  condition!  let  thy  grace 
Upon  his  inner  soul  in  mercy  shine; 
Permit  his  heart  to  kindle,  and  embrace 
(Though    were    it    only  for    a    moment's 

space) 
The  triumphs  of  this  hour;    for  they  are 
Thine! 


ON  THE  DISINTERMENT  OF  THE  REMAINS 
OF   THE   DUKE   D'ENGHIEN. 

Dear  reliques  !  from  a  pit  of  vilest  mould 
Uprisen — to  lodge  among  ancestral  kings  ; 
And  to  inflict  shame's  salutary  stings 
On  the  remorseless  hearts  of  men  grown 

old 
In  a  blind  worship  ;  men  perversely  bold 
Even  to  this  hour ;  yet  at  this  hour  they 
quake  ;  [sake, 

And  some  their  monstrous  idol  shall  for- 
If,  to  the  living,  truth  was  ever  told 
By   aught   surrendered    from    the    hollow 
grave :  [brave ! 

O   murdered  prince!    meek,   loyal,   pious, 
The  power  of  retribution  once  was  given  ; 
But    'tis    a  rueful    thought    that    willow- 
bands 
So  often  tie  the  thunder-wielding  hands 
Of  justice,    sent   to    earth    from    highest 
heaven ! 


the  day  :  "  When  the  Austrians  took  Hockheim, 
in  one  part  of  the  engagement  they  got  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  whence  they  had  their  first 
view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted— not 
a  gun  was  fired— not  a  voice  heard  :  they  stood 
gazing  on  the  river,  with  those  feelings  which 
the  events  of  the  last  fifteen  years  at  once  called 
up.  Prince  Schwartzenberg  rode  up  to  know 
the  cause  of  this  sudden  stop  :  they  then  gave 
three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy,  and  dro/e 
them  into  the  water." 


OCCASIONED     BY     THE     BATTLE     OF 
WATERLOO. 

( The  last  six   lines  are  intended  for  an 
Inscription.) 

FEBRUARY,    1816. 

Intrepid  sons  of  Albion!  not  by  you 
Is  life  despised  ;  ah,  no,  the  spacious  earth 
Ne'er  saw  a  race  who  held,  by  right  of  birth, 
So  many  objects  to  which  love  is  due. 
Ye  slight  not  life — to  God  and  nature  true ; 
But  death,  becoming  death,  is  dearer  far, 
When  duty  bids  you  bleed  in  open  war: 
Hence  hath    your    prowess   quelled    that 

impious  crew. 
Heroes !  for  instant  sacrifice  prepared. 
Yet  filled  with  ardour,  and  on  triumph  bent, 
'Mid  direst  shocks  of  mortal  accident, 
To  you  who  fell,  and  you  whom  slaughter 
spared,  [event, 

To  guard  the  fallen,  and  consummate  the 
Your  country  rears  this  sacred  monument ! 


FEBRUARY,    1816. 

Oh!    for  a  kindling  touch   of  that  pure 

flame 
Which  taught  the  offering  of  song  to  rise 
From  thy  lone  bower,  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Great  Filicaia !    With  celestial  aim 
It  rose — thy  saintly  rapture  to  proclaim, 
Then,   when   the  imperial   city  stood  re- 
leased [East, 
From  bondage  threatened  by  the  embattled 
And    Christendom    respired ;    from   guilt 

and  shame 
Redeemed,  from  miserable  fear  set  free 
By  one  day's  feat,  one  mighty  victory. 
— Chant   the    deliverer's    praise   in  every 
tongue!  [waxed  dim, 

The  cross  shall  spread,   the  crescent  hath 
He  conquering,  as  in   earth   and   heaven 
was  sung,  [God  by  him. 

He  conquering  through  God,  and 


OCCASIONED  BY  THE  SAME  BATTLE. 
FEBRUARY,    1S16, 

The  bard,  whose  soul  is  meek  as  dawning 
day,  [severe; 

Yet    trained     to    judgments    righteously 
Fervid,  yet  conversant  with  holy  fear, 
As  recognizing  one  Almighty  sway  : 
He  whose  experienced  eye  can  pierce  the 
array 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


183 


Of  past  events,— to  whom,  in  vision  clear, 
The  aspiring  heads  of  future  things  appear, 
Like  mountain-tops  whose  mists  have  rolled 

away: 
Assoiled  from  all  incumbrance  of  our  time,* 
He  only,  if  such  breathe,  in  strains  devout 
Shall  comprehend  this  victory  sublime; 
And  worthily  rehearse  the  hideous  rout, 
Which  the  blest  angels,  from  their  peaceful 

clime 
Beholding,  welcomed  with  a  choral  shout. 


Emperors    and    kings,    how    oft    have 

temples  rung  [scorn  ! 

With  impious  thanksgiving,  the  Almighty's 
How  oft  above  their  altars  have  been  hung 
Trophies  that  led  the  good  and  wise  to 

mourn 
Triumphant  wrong,  battle  of  battle  born, 
And  sorrow  that  to  fruitless  sorrow  clung! 
Now,    from    Heaven-sanctioned    victory, 

peace  is  sprung; 
In  this  firm  hour  salvation  lifts  her  horn. 
Glory  to  arms!  but  conscious  that  the  nerve 
Of  popular  reason,  long  mistrusted,  freed 
Your  thrones,  from  duty,  princes  !  fear  to 

swerve ;  [creed 

Be  just,  be  grateful  ;   nor,  the  oppressor's 
Reviving,  heavier  chastisement  deserve 
Than  ever  forced  unpitied  hearts  to  bleed. 


ODE. 


COMPOSED  IN  JANUARY,   1816. 

"  Carmina  possumus 
Donare,  et  pretium  dicere  muneri. 
Non  incisa  notis  marmora  publicw. 
Per  qua  spiritus  et  vita  redit  bonis 
Post  mortem  ducibus 

clarius  indicant 

Laudes,  quam Pierides  ;  neque 

Si  chartae  sileant  quod  bene  feceris, 
Mercedem  tulens. " — Hor.  Car.  8,  Lib.  4. 

When  the  soft  hand  of  sleep  had  closed 

the  latch 
On  the  tired  household  of  corporeal  sense, 
And  Fancy,  keeping  unreluctant  watch, 
Was  free  her  choicest  favours  to  dispense  ; 
I  saw,  in  wondrous  perspective  displayed, 
A  landscape  more  august   than   happiest 

skill 
Of  pencil  ever  clothed  with  light  and  shade ; 
An  intermingled  pomp  of  vale  and  hill, 
City,  and  naval  stream,  suburban  grove, 
And  stately  forest  where  the  wild  deer  rove  ; 

*  "From  all  this  world's  encumbrance  did  him- 
self assoil." — Spenser. 


Nor  wanted  lurking  hamlet,  dusky  towns, 
And  scattered  rural  farms  of  aspect  bright. 
And,  here  and  there,  between  the  pastoral 

downs, 
The  azure  sea  upswelled  upon  the  sight. 
Fair  prospect,  such  as  Britain  only  shows  ! 
But  not  a  living  creature  could  be  seen 
Through  its  wide  circuit,  hushed  in  deep 

repose, 
Yea,  even  to  sadness,  quiet  and  serene  1 
Amid  this  solitude  ol  earth  and  sky, 
Through   portal   clear  as   loop-hole  in   a 

storm 
Opening  before  the  sun's  triumphant  eye, 
Issued,  to  sudden  view,  a  radiant  form! 
Earthward  it  glided  with  a  swift  descent: 
Saint  George  himself  this  visitant  may  be; 
And  ere  a  thought  could  ask  on  what  intent 
He  sought  the  regions  of  humanity, 
A  thrilling  voice  was  heard,  that  vivified 
City  and  field  and  flood,— aloud  it  cried, 

' '  Though  from  my  celestial  home, 
Like  a  champion  armed  I  come  ; 
On  my  helm  the  dragon  crest, 
And  the  red  cross  on  my  breast ; 
I,  the  guardian  of  this  land, 
Speak  not  now  of  toilsome  duty — 
Well  obeyed  was  that  command, 
Hence  bright  days  of  festive  beauty  ; 

Haste,  virgins,   haste  ! — the  flowers  which 
summer  gave  • 

Have  perished  in  the  field  ;  [yield 

But   the  green  thickets   plenteously  shall 
Fit  garlands  for  the  brave, 

That  will  be  welcome,  if  by  you  entwined  ! 

Haste,  virgins,  haste  ; — and  you,  ye  matrons 
grave, 

Go  forth  with  rival  youthfulness  of  mind, 
And  gaUier  what  ye  find 

Of  hardy  laurel  and  wild  holly  boughs, 

To   deck    your    stern    defenders'   modest 
brows ! 
Such  simple  gifts  prepare, 

Though  they  have  gained  a  worthier  meed ; 
And  in  due  time  shall  share 

Those  palms  and  amaranthine  wreaths 

Unto  their  martyred  countrymen  decreed, 

In    realms     where    everlasting    freshness 
breathes!" 

And  lo!    with  crimson  banners  proudly 
streaming, 
And  upright  weapons  innocently  gleaming, 
Along  the  surface  of  a  spacious  plain 
Advance  in  order  the  redoubted  bands, 
And  there  receive  green  chaplets  from  the 
Of  a  fair  female  train,  [hands 


184 


SONNETS   DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY. 


Maids  nnd  matrons— dight 
In  robes  of  dazzling  white, — 
While    from    the   crowd    bursts   forth    a 
rapturous  noise 
By  the  cloud-capt  hills  retorted, — 
And  a  throng  of  rosy  boys 
In  loose  fashion  tell  their  joys, — 
And  gray-haired  sires,  on  staffs  supported, 
Look  round — and  by  their   smiling  seem 

to  say, 
Thus  strives  a  grateful  country  to  display 
The  mighty  debt  which  nothing  can  repay! 

Anon  before  my  sight  a  palace  rose, 
Built  of  all  precious  substances, — so  pure 
And  exquisite,  that  sleep  alone  bestows 
Ability  like  splendour  to  endure; 
Entered,  with  streaming  thousands,  through 
the  gate,  [of  state, 

I  saw  the  banquet  spread  beneath  a  dome 
A  lofty  dome,  that  dared  to  emulate 
The  heaven  of  sable  night 
With  starry  lustre ;  and  had  power  to  throw- 
Solemn  effulgence,  clear  as  solar  light, 
Upon  a  princely  company  below, 
While  the  vault  rang  with  choral  harmony, 
Like  some   nymph-haunted  grot   beneath 

the  roaring  sea. 
No  sooner  ceased  that  peal,  than  on  the 
Of  exultation  hung  a  dirge,  [verge 

Breathed  from  a  soft  and  lonely  instrument, 

That  kindled  recollections 

Of  agonized  affections  ; 
And,  though  some  tears  the  strain  attended, 

The  mournful  passion  ended 
In  peace  of  spirit,  and  sublime  content ! 

But  garlands  wither, — festal  shows  depart, 
Like    dreams    themselves  ;    and    sweetest 

Albeit  of  effect  profound,  [sound, 

It  was — and  it  is  gone ! 
Victorious  England  !  bid  the  silent  art 
Reflect,  in  glowing  hues  that  shall  not  fade, 
These  high  achievements,  even  as  she  arrayed 
With  second  life  the  deed  of  Marathon, 

Upon  Athenian  walls  : 
So  may  she  labour  for  thy  civic  halls  ; 

And  be  the  guardian  spaces 

Of  consecrated  places, 
As  nobly  graced  by  sculpture's  patient  toil; 
And  let  imperishable  structures  grow 
Fixed  in  the  depths  of  this  courageous  soil; 
Expressive  signals  of  a  glorious  strife, 
And  competent  to  shed  a  spark  divine 
Into  the  torpid  breast  of  daily  life  ;  [shine, 
Records  on  which  the  morning  sun  may 

As  changeful  ages  flow, 
With  gratulation  thoroughly  benign  ! 


And  ye,  Pierian  sisters,  sprung  from  Jove 
And  sage  Mnemosyne, — full  long  debarred 
From  your  first  mansions, — exiled  all  too 

long 
From  many  a  hallowed  stream  and  grove, 
Dear  native  regions  where  ye  wont  to  rove, 
Chanting  for  patriot  heroes  the  reward 

Of  never-dying  song  ! 
Now,  (for,  though  truth  descending  from 

above 
The  Olympian  summit  hath  destroyed  for 

aye 
Your  kindred  deities,  ye  live  and  move 
And  exercise  unblamed  a  generous  sway) 
Now,  on  the  margin  of  some  spotless  foun- 
tain, 
Or  top  serene  of  unmolested  mountain, 
Strike  audibly  the  noblest  of  your  lyres, 
And  for  a  moment  meet  my  soul's  desires  ! 
That  I,  or  some  more  favoured  bard,  may 

hear 
What  ye,  celestial  maids  !  have  often  sung 
Of  Britain's  acts, — may  catch  it  with  rapt 

ear, 
And  give  the  treasure  to  our  British  tongue ! 
So  shall  the  characters  of  that  proud  page 
Support  their  mighty  theme  from  age  to  age; 
And,  in  the  desert  places  of  the  earth, 
When  they  to  future  empires  have  given 

birth, 
So  shall  the  people  gather  and  believe 
The  bold  report,  transferred  to  every  clime; 
And  the  whole  world,  not  envious  but  ad- 
And  to  the  like  aspiring,  [miring, 

Own  that  the  progeny  of  this  fair  isle 
Had  power  as  lofty  actions  to  achieve 
As  were  performed  in  man's  heroic  prime  ; 
Nor  wanted,  when  their  fortitude  had  held 
Its  even  tenor,  and  the  foe  was  quelled, 
A  corresponding  virtue  to  beguile 
The  hostile  purpose  of  wide-wasting  time  ; 
That  not  in  vain  they  laboured  to  secure, 
For  their  great  deeds,  perpetual  memory, 
And  fame  as  largely  spread  as  land  and  sea, 
By  works  of  spirit  high  and  passion  pure. 


'THANKSGIVING  ODE. 
January  18,  1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Wholly  unworthy  of  touching  upon  the  mo- 
mentous subject  here  treated  would  that  poet  be, 
before  whose  eyes  the  present  distresses  under 
which  this  kingdom  labours  could  interpose  a 
veil  sufficiently  thick  to  hide,  or  even  to  obscure, 
the   splendour  of  this  great  moral  triumph.     It 


THANKSGIVING   ODE. 


18$ 


the  author  has  given  way  to  exultation,  un- 
checked by  these  distresses,  it  might  be  suffici- 
ent to  protect  him  from  a  charge  of  insensibility, 
should  he  state  his  own  belief  that  the  sufferings 
will  be  transitory.  On  the  wisdom  of  a  very 
large  majority  of  the  British  nation  rested  that 
generosity  which  poured  out  the  treasures  of 
this  country  for  the  deliverance  of  Europe  :  and 
in  the  same  national  wisdom,  presiding  in  time 
of  peace  over  an  energy  not  inferior  to  that 
which  has  been  displayed  in  war,  they  confide, 
who  encourage  a  firm  hope,  that  the  cup  ol  Our 
wealth  will  be  gradually  replenished.  There 
will,  doubtless,  be  no  few  ready  to  indulge  in 
regrets  and  repinings  :  and  to  feed  a  morbid 
satisfaction,  by  aggravating  these  burthens  in 
imagination,  in  order  that  calamity  so  confi- 
dently prophesied,  as  it  has  not  taken  the  shape 
which  their  sagacity  allotted  to  it,  may  appear 
as  grievous  as  possible  under  another.  But  the 
body  of  the  nation  will  not  quarrel  with  the 
gain,  because  it  might  have  been  purchased  at  a 
less  price  :  and,  acknowledging  in  these  suffer- 
ings, which  they  feel  to  have  been  in  a  great  de- 
gree unavoidable,  a  consecration  of  their  noble 
efforts,  they  will  vigorously  apply  themselves  to 
remedy  the  evil. 

Nor  is  it  at  the  expense  of  rational  patriotism 
or  in  disregard  of  sound  philosophy,  that  the 
author  hath  given  vent  to  feelings  tending  to 
encourage  a  martial  spirit  in  the  bosoms  of  his 
countrymen,  at  a  time  when  there  is  a  general 
outcry  against  the  prevalence  of  these  disposi- 
tions. The  British  army,  both  by  its  skill  and 
valour  in  the  field,  and  by  the  discipline  which 
has  rendered  it  much  less  formidable  than  the 
armies  of  other  powers  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
several  countries  where  its  operations  were  car- 
ried on,  has  performed  services  that  will  not 
allow  the  language  of  gratitude  and  admiration 
to  be  suppressed  or  restrained  (whatever  be  the 
temper  of  the  public  mind  through  a  scrupu- 
lous dread  lest  the  tribute  due  to  the  past  should 
prove  an  injurious  incentive  for  the  future. 
Every  man  deserving  the  name  of  Briton  adds 
his  voice  to  the  chorus  which  extols  the  exploits 
of  his  countrymen,  with  a  consciousness,  at 
times  overpowering  the  effort,  that  they  tran- 
scend all  praise. —But  this  particular  sentiment, 
thus  irresistibly  excited,  is  not  sufficient.  The 
nation  would  err  grievously,  if  she  suffered  the 
abuse  which  other  states  have  made  of  military 
power,  to  prevent  her  from  perceiving  that  no 
people  ever  was,  or  can  be,  independent,  free, 
or  secure,  much  less  great,  in  any  sane  applica- 
tion of  the  word,  without  martial  propensities 
and  an  assiduous  cultivation  of  military  virtues. 
Nor  let  it  be  overlooked,  that  the  benefits  deriv- 
able from  these  sources  are  placed  within  the 
reach  of  Great  Britain,  under  conditions  pecu- 
liarly favourable.  The  same  insular  position 
which,  by  rendering  territorial  incorporation  im- 
possible, utterly  precludes  the  desire  of  conquest 
under  the  most  seductive  shape  it  can  assume, 
enables  her  to  rely,  for  her  defence  against 
foreign  foes,  chiefly  upon  a  species  of  armed 
force  from  which  her  own  liberties  have  nothing 
to  fear     Such  are  the  privileges  of  her  situa- 


tion ;  and,  by  permitting,  they  invite  her  to  give 
way  to  the  courageous  instincts  of  human  nature, 
and  to  strengthen  and  to  refine  them  by  cul- 
ture. But  some  have  more  than  insinuated 
that  a  design  exists  to  subvert  the  civil  charac- 
ter of  the  English  people  by  unconstitutional 
applications  and  unnecessary  increase  of  military 
power.  The  advisers  and  abettors  of  such  a 
design,  were  it  possible  that  it  should  exist, 
would  be  guilty  of  the  most  heinous  crime, 
which,  upon  this  planet,  can  be  committed.  The 
author,  trusting  that  this  apprehension  arises 
from  the  delusive  influences  of  an  honourable 
jealousy,  hopes  that  the  martial  qualities  he 
venerates  will  be  fostered  by  adhering  to  those 
good  old  usages  which  experience  has  sanctioned: 
and  by  availing  ourselves  of  new  means  of  in- 
disputable promise  :  particularly  by  applying,  in 
its  utmost  possible  extent,  that  system  of  tuition 
whose  master-spring  is  a  habit  of  gradually  en- 
lightened subordination  ; — by  imparting  know- 
ledge, civil,  moral,  and  religious,  in  such  measure 
that  the  mind,  among  all  classes  of  the  commu- 
nity, may  love,  admire,  and  be  prepared  and 
accomplished  to  defend  that  country  under  whose 
protection  its  faculties  have  been  unfolded,  and 
its  riches  acquired  ; — by  just  deaiing  towards  all 
orders  of  the  state,  so  that  no  members  of  it 
being  trampled  upon,  courage  may  everywhere 
continue  to  rest  immovably  upon  its  ancient 
English  foundation,  personal  self-respect ; — by 
adequate  rewards,  and  permanent  honours,  con- 
ferred upon  the  deserving  ;  by  encouraging  ath- 
letic exercises"  and  manly  sports  among  the 
peasantry  of  the  country ; — and  by  especial  care 
to  provide  and  support  institutions,  in  which, 
during  a  time  of  peace,  a  reasonable  proportion 
of  the  youth  of  the  country  may  be  instructed 
in  military  science. 

The  author  has  only  to  add,  that  he  shoulr 
feel  little  satisfaction  in  giving  to  the  world  these 
limited  attempts  to  celebrate  the  virtues  of  hi? 
country,  if  he  did  not  encourage  a  hope  that  o 
subject,  which  it  has  fallen  within  his  province 
to  treat  only  in  the  mass,  will  by  other  poets  be 
illustrated  in  that  detail  which  its  importance 
calls  for,  and  which  will  allow  opportunities  tc 
give  the  merited  applause  to  persons  as  well  as 

to  THINGS. 

This  Ode  was  published  along  with  other 
pieces,  now  interspersed  through  this  Volume. 


ODE. 


THE    MORNING   OF  THE    DAY   APPOINTED 
FOR    A    GENERAL   THANKSGIVING. 

JANUARY   18,   1816. 

Hail,  universal  source  of  pure  delight  ! 
Thou  that  canst  shed  the  bliss  of  gratitude 
On  hearts  howe'er  insensible  or  rude  ; 
Whether  thy  orient  visitations  smite 
The  haughty  towers  where  monarchs  dwell ; 
Or  thou,  impartial  sun,  with  presence  bright 


186 


THANKSGIVING  QBE. 


Cheer'st  the  low  threshold  of  the  peasant's 

cell! 
Not  unrejoiced  I  see  thee  climb  the  sky 
In  naked    splendour,   clear  from   mist  or 

haze, 
Or  cloud  approaching  to  divert  the  rays, 
Which  even  in  deepest  winter  testify 

Thy  power  and  majesty, 
Dazzling  the  vision  that  presumes  to  gaze. 
Well  does  thine  aspect  usher  in  this  day  ; 
As  aptly  srtits  therewith  that  timid  pace 

Submitted  to  the  chains  [dains 

That  bind  thee  to  the  path  which  God  or- 

That  tfiou  shalt  trace,  [away  ! 

Till,  with  the  heavens  and  earth,  thou  pass 
Nor  less,  the  stillness  of  these  frosty  plains, 
Their  utter  stillness,  and  the  silent  grace 
Of  ^on  ethereal  summits  white  with  snow, 
^Whose  tranquil  pomp,  and  spotless  purity, 

Report  of  storms  gone  by 

To  us  who  tread  below) 
Do  with  the  service  of  this  day  accord. 
Divinest  object,  which  the  uplifted  eye 
Of  mortal  man  is  suffered  to  behold  ; 
Thou,  who  upon  yon  snow-clad  heights  hast 
poured  [vale, 

Meek  splendour,  nor  forget 'st  the  humble 
Thou   who  dost   warm    earth's    universal 

mould, 
And  for  thy  bounty  wert  not  unadored 

By  pious  men  of  old  ;  [hail  ! 

Once  more,  heart-cheering  sun,  I  bid  thee 
Bright  be  thy  course  to-day,  let  not  this 
promise  fail ! 


'Mid  the  deep  quiet  of  this  morning  hour, 
All  nature  seems  to  hear  me  while  I  speak, 
By  feelings  urged,  that  do  not  vainly  seek 
Apt  language,  ready  as  the  tuneful  notes 
That  stream  in  blithe  succession  from  the 

Of  birds  in  leafy  bower,  [throats 

Warbling  a  farewell  to  a  vernal  shower. 
There  is  a  radiant  but  a  short-lived  flame, 
That  burns  for  poets  in  the  dawning  east ; 
And  oft  my  soul  hath  kindled  at  the  same, 
When  the  captivity  of  sleep  had  ceased  ; 
But  he  who  fixed  immovably  the  frame 
Of  the  round  world,  and  built,  by  laws  as 

A  solid  refuge  for  distress,         [strong, 

The  towers  of  righteousness  ; 
He  knows  that  from  a  holier  altar  came 
The  quickening  spark  of  this  day's  sacrifice  ; 
Knows  that  the  source  is  nobler  whence  doth 
rise 

The  current  of  this  matin  song  ; 
That  deeper  far  it  lies 
Than  aught  dependent  on  the  fickle  skies. 


Have  we  not  conquered  ? — By  the  venge- 
ful sword? 
Ah,  no,  by  dint  of  magnanimity ; 
That  curbed  the  baser  passions,  and  left  free 
A  loyal  band  to  follow  their  liege  lord, 
Clear-sighted  honour — and  his  staid  com- 
peers, 
Along  a  track  of  most  unnatural  years, 
In  execution  of  heroic  deeds  ; 
Whose  memory.spotless  as  the  crystal  beads 
Of  morning  dew  upon  the  untrodden  meads, 
Shall  live  enrolled  above  the  starry  spheres 
Who  to  the  murmurs  of  an  earthly  string, 
Of  Britain's  acts  would  sing, 
He  with  enraptured  voice  will  tell 
Of  one  whose  spirit  no  reverse  could  quell ; 
Of  one  that  'mid  the  failing  never  failed  : 
Who  paints  how  Britain  struggled  and  pre- 
vailed 
Shall  represent  her  labouring  with  an  eye 
Of  circumspect  humanity  ; 
Shall  show  her  clothed  with  strength 
All  martial  duties  to  fulfil ;    [and  skill, 
Firm  as  a  rock  in  stationary  fight  : 
In  motion  rapid  as  the  lightning's  gleam  ; 
Fierce  as  a  flood-gate  bursting  in  the  night 
To    rouse   the  wicked  from    their   giddy 

dream — 
Woe,  woe  to  all  that  face  her  in  the  field  ! 
Appalled  she  may  not  be,  and  cannot  yield. 

And  thus  is  missed  the  sole  true  glory 

That  can  belong  to  human  story  ! 

At  which  they  only  shall  arrive     [dive. 

Who  through  the  abyss  of  weakness 
The  very  humblest  are  too  proud  of  heart  : 
And  one  brief  day  is  rightly  set  apart 
To  Him  who  lifteth  up  and  layeth  low  ; 
For  that  Almighty  God  to  whom  we  owe, 
Say  not  that  we  have  vanquished — but  that 
we  survive. 

How  dreadful  the  dominion  of  the  im- 
pure ! 
Why  should  the  song  be  tardy  to  proclaim 
That  less  than  power  unbounded  could  not 

tame 
That   soul   of  evil — which,    from   hell  let 
loose,  [abuse, 

Had  filled  the  astonished  world  with  such 
As  boundless  patience  only  could  endure  ? 
Wide-wasted    regions  —  cities    wrapt    in 
flame —  [eye 

Who  sees,  and  feels,  may  lift  a  streaming 
To  heaven, — who  never  saw  may  heave  a 

sigh  ; 
But  the  foundation  of  our  nature  shakes, 
And  with  an  infinite  pain  the  spirit  aches, 


TJfAXKSGJVTNG  ODE. 


185 


When  desolated  countries,  towns  on  fire, 

Are  but  the  avowed  attire 
Of  warfare  waged  with  desperate  mind 
Against  the  life  of  virtue  in  mankind  ; 

Assaulting  without  ruth 

The  citadels  of  truth  ; 
While  the  whole  forest  of  civility 
Is  doomed  to  perish,  to  the  last  fair  tree  ! 

A  crouching  purpose — a  distracted  will — 
Opposed  t(  hopes  that  battened  upon  scorn, 
And  to  desires  whose  ever-waxing  horn 
Not  all  die  light  of  earthly  power  could  fill  ; 
Opposed  to  dark,  deep  plots  of  patient 
And  to  celerities  of  lawless  force  [skill, 
Which,  spurning   God,    had    flung  away 

remorse —  [redress? 

What   could    they   gain   but   shadows   of 
So  bad  proceeded  propagating  worse  ; 
And  discipline  was  passion's  dire  excess. 
Widens  the  fatal  web,  its  lines  extend,* 
And  deadlier  poisons  in  the  chalice  blend — 
When  will  your  trials    teach  you  to  be 

wise  ? 
Oh,  prostrate  lands,  consult  your  agonies  ! 

No  more — the  guilt  is  banished, 
And,  with  the  guilt,  the  shame  is  fled  ; 
And,  with  the  guilt  and  shame,  the  woe 

hath  vanished, 
Shaking  the  dust  and  ashes  from  her  head  ! 
No  more — these  lingerings  of  distress 
Sully  the  limpid  stream  of  thankfulness. 
What  robe  can  gratitude  employ 
So  seemly  as  the  radiant  vest  of  joy  ? 
What  steps  so  suitable  as  those  that  move 
In  prompt  obedience  to  spontaneous  mea- 
Of  glory — and  felicity — and  love,        [sures 
Surrendering   the   whole   heart   to   sacred 

pleasures  ? 

Land  of  our  fathers  !  precious  unto  me 
Since  the  first  joys  of  thinking  infancy  ; 
Wrhen  of  thy  gallant  chivalry  I  read, 
And  hugged  the  volume  on  my  sleepless 

bed! 
O  England  ! — dearer  far  than  life  is  dear, 
If  I  forget  thy  prowess,  never  more 
Be  thy  ungrateful  son  allowed  to  hear 
Thy  green  leaves  rustle,  or  thy  torrents  roar  ! 
But  how  can  he  be  faithless  to  the  past, 
Whose  soul,  intolerant  of  base  decline, 
Saw  in  thy  virtue  a  celestial  sign, 


*  "  A  discipline  the  ru'e  whereof  is  passion." — 
Lokl)  Bkook. 


That    bade   him   hope,    and    to   his   hope 
cleave  fast  !  [length 

The    nations   strove   with    puissance  ; — at 
Wide  Kurope  heaved,  impatient  to  be  cast, 
With  all  her  living  strength, 
With  all  her  armed  powers, 
Upon  the  offensive  snores. 
The  trumpet  blew  a  universal  blast  ! 
But  thou  art  foremost  in  the  field  ; — there 

stand  : 
Receive  the  triumph  destined  to  thy  hand  ! 
All  states  have  glorified  themselves  ;  their 

claims 
Arc   weighed   by    Providence,    in   balance 
even  ;  [names, 

And   now,  in  preference  to  the  mightiest 
To  thee  the  exterminating  sword  is  given. 
Dread  mark  of  approbation,  justly  gained  ! 
Exalted  office,  worthily  sustained  ! 


Imagination,  ne'er  before  content, 
But  aye  ascending,  restless  in  her  pride, 
From  all  that  man's  performance  could 

present, 
Stoops  to  that  closing  deed  magnificent, 
And  with  the  embrace  is  satisfied. 
Fly,  ministers  of  fame, 
Whate'er  your  means,  whatever  help  ye 
claim,  [delight  ! 

Bear   through  the  world  these  tidings  of 
Hours,  days,  and  months,  have  borne  them, 
in  the  sight  [shower, 

Of    mortals,    travelling    faster    than    the 
That  landward  stretches  from  the  sea, 
The  morning's  splendours  to  devour  ; 
But  this  appearance  scattered  ecstasy, 
And  heart-sick  Europe  blessed  the  healing 
power. 
The    shock    is    given — the    adversaria 

bleed — 
Lo,  Justice  triumphs!  Earth  is  freed ! 
Such  glad  assurance  suddenly  went  forth— 
It   pierced  the    caverns   of    the   sluggish 
north — 
It  found  no  barrier  on  the  ridge 
Of  Andes — frozen  gulfs  became  its  bridge — 
The  vast  Pacific  gladdens  with  the  freight — 
Upon  the  lakes  of  Asia  'tis  bestowed— 
The  Arabian  desert  shapes  a  willing  road, 

Across  her  burning  breast, 
For  this  refreshing  incense  from  the  west ! 

Where  snakes  and  lions  breed, 
Where   towns    and    cities    thick    as   stars 

appear, 
Wherever  fruits  are  gathered,  and  where  el 
The    upturned   soil    receives   the   hopeful 
seed — 


1S8 


THANKSGIVING  ODE. 


While  the  sun  rules,  and  cross  the  shades 

of  night — 
The  unwearied  arrow  hath    pursued    its 

flight  !  [heed, 

The   eyes    of    good   men   thankfully  give 

And  in  its  sparkling  progress  read 
How  virtue   triumphs,  from  her  bondage 

freed  ! 
Tyrants  exult  to  hear  of  kingdoms  won, 
And  slaves  are  pleased  to  learn  that  mighty 

feats  are  done  ;  [traded  borders 

Even  the  proud   realm,  from   whose  dis- 
This  messenger  of  good  was  launched  in 

air,  [disorders, 

France,  conquered  France,  amid  her  wild 
Feels,  and  hereafter  shall  the  truth  declare, 
That  she  too  lacks  not  reason  to  rejoice, 
And  utter   England's    name    with    sadly- 

plausive  voice. 

Preserve,  O  Lord !  within  our  hearts 

The  memory  of  thy  favour, 

That  else  insensibly  departs, 

And  loses  its  sweet  savour  ! 
Lodge  it  within  us  ! — as  the  power  of  light 
Lives  inexhaustibly  in  precious  gems, 
Fixed  on  the  front  of  eastern  diadems, 
So  shine  our  thankfulness  for  ever  bright  ! 
What   offering,  what  transcendent  monu- 
Shall  our  sincerity  to  thee  present?    [ment 
Not  work  of  hands  ;  but  trophies  that  may 

reach 
To  highest  heaven — the  labour  of  the  soul  ; 
That  builds,  as  thy  unerring  precepts  teach, 
Upon  the  inward  victories  of  each, 
Her  hope  of  lasting  glory  for  the  whole. 
Yet  might  it  well  become  that  city  now, 
Into  whose  breast   the   tides  of  grandeur 

flow, 
To  whom  all  persecuted  men  retreat ; 
If  a  new  temple  lift  her  votive  brow 
Upon  the  shore  of  silver  Thames — to  greet 
The  peaceful  guest  advancing  from  afar. 
Bright  be  the  distant  fabric,  as  a  star 
Fresh  risen— and  beautiful  within  !— there 

meet 
Dependence  infinite,  proportion  just  ; 
A  pile  that  grace  approves,  that  time  can 

trust 
With  his  most  sacred  wealth,  heroic  dust ! 

But  if  the  valiant  of  this  land 
In  reverential  modesty  demand, 
That  ail  observance,  due  to  them,  be  paid 
Where  their  serene  progenitors  are  laid  ; 
Kings,  warriors,  high-souled  poets,  saint- 
like sages,  [ages  ; 
England's  illustrious   sons   of  long,   long 


Be  it  not  unordained  that  solemn  rites, 
Within  the  circuit  of  those  Gothic  walls. 
Shall  be  performed  at  pregnant  intervals  -, 
Commemoration  holy,  that  unites 
The  living  generations  with  the  dead  ; 
By  the  deep  soul-moving  sense 
Of  religious  eloquence, — 
By  visual  pomp,  and  by  the  tie 
Of  sweet  and    threatening  harmony  ; 
Soft  notes,  awful  as  the  omen 
Of  destructive  tempests  coming, 
And  escaping  from  that  sadness 
Into  elevated  gladness  ; 
While    the     white-robed     choir    at- 
tendant, 
Under     mouldering     banners     pen- 
dant, 
Provoke  all  potent  symphonies  to  raise 

Songs  of  victory  and  praise, 

For  them  who  bravely  stood  unhurt,  or 

bled  [graves 

With   medicable  wounds,   or  found  their 

Upon   the   battle-field,    or  under  ocean's 

waves  ; 
Or  were  conducted  home  in  single  state, 
And  long  procession — there  to  lie, 
Where  their  sons'  sons,  and  all  posterity, 
Unheard  by  them,  their  deeds  shall  cele 
brate  ! 
Nor  will  the  God  of  peace  and  love 
Such  martial  service  disapprove. 
He     guides     the     pestilence  —  the 

cloud 
Of  locusts  travels  on  his  breath  ; 
The      region      that     in     hope     was 
ploughed 
His  drought  consumes,  his  mildew  taints 
with  death  ; 
He  springs  the  hushed  volcano's  mine  ; 
He  puts  the  earthquake  on  her  still  design, 
Darkens  the  sun,  hath  bade  the  forest  sink, 
And,  drinking  towns  and  cities,  still  can 
drink  [Thine ! 

Cities  and  towns— 'tis  Thou— the  work  is 
The    fierce    tornado     sleeps     within    thy 
courts — 
He  hears  the  word — he  flies — 
And  navies  perish  in  their  ports  ; 
For  thou  art  angry  with  thine  enemies  ! 
For  these,  and  for  our  errors 
And  sins,  that  point  their  terrors, 
We  bow  our  heads  before  Thee,  and  we 

laud 
And  magnify  thy  name,  Almighty  God  ! 
But  thy  most  dreaded  instrument 
In  working  out  a  pure  intent, 
Is     man — arrayed     for     mutual 
slaughter, — 


THANKSGIVING  ODE. 


189 


Yea,  Carnage  is  thy  daughter  I 
Thou  cloth  'st  the  wicked  in  their  dazzling 

mail, 
And  by  thy  just  permission  they  prevail  ; 
Thine    arm    from   peril   guards    the 

coasts 
Of  them  who  in  thy  laws  delight : 
Thy  presence  turns  the  scale  of  doubtful 

fight, 
Tremendous  God  of  battles,  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

To  Thee— to  Thee— 
On  this  appointed  day  shall  thanks  ascend, 
That  Thou  hast  brought  our  warfare  to  an 

end, 
And  that  we  need  no  second  victory  ! 
Ha  !  what  a  ghastly  -.ight  for  man  to  see  ; 
And  to  the  heavenly  saints  in  peace  who 
dwell, 
For  a  brief  moment,  terrible  ; 
ut  to  thy  sovereign  penetration,  fair, 
Before  whom  all  things  are,  that  were, 
All  judgments  that    have    been,    or   e'er 

shall  be  ; 
Links  in  the  chain  of  thy  tranquillity  ! 
Along  the  bosom  of  this  favoured  nation, 
Breathe  thou,  this  day,  a  vital  undulation  ! 
Let  all  who  do  this  land  inherit 
Be  conscious  of  thy  moving  spirit ! 
Oh,  'tis  a  goodly  ordinance, — the  sight, 
Though  sprung  from  bleeding  war,  is  one 

of  pure  delight  ; 
Bless  thou  the  hour,  or  ere  the  hour  arrive, 
When  a  whole  people  'hall  kneel  down  in 

prayer, 
And,  at  one  moment,  in  one  rapture,  strive 
With  lip  and  heart  to  tell  their  gratitude 

For  thy  protecting  care,  [Lord 

Their  solemn  joy — praising    the   Eternal 

For  tyranny  subdued, 
And  for  the  sway  of  equity  renewed, 
For  liberty  confirmed,  and  peace  restored  ! 

But    hark — the    summons  ! — down    the 

placid  lake 
Floats  the  soft  cadence  of  the  church-tower 

bells  ;  [wake 

Bright  shines  the  sun,  as  if  his  beams  might 


The  tender  insects  sleeping  in  their  cells 
Bright  shines  the  sun — and  not  a  breeze  to 

shake 
The  drops  that  tip  the  melting  icicles. 

Oh,  enter  now  His  temple  gale  I 
Inviting  words — perchance  already  flung, 
(As   the   crowd   press   devoutly  down  the 

aisle 
Of  some  old  minster's  venerable  pile) 
From  voices  into  zealous  passion  stung, 
While  the  tubed  engine  feels  the  inspiring 

blast,  [cast 

And   has   begun— its  clouds  of  sound  to 
Towards  the  empyreal  heaven, 
As  if  the  fretted  roof  were  riven. 
Us,  humbler  ceremonies  now  await; 
But  in  the  bosom,  with  devout  respect, 
The  banner  of  our  joy  we  will  erect, 
And    strength    of    love    our    souls    shall 

elevate: 
For  to  a  few  collected  in  his  name, 
Their  heavenly  Father  will  incline  an  ear 
Gracious  to  service  hallowed  by  its  aim  ; — 
Awake !  the  majesty  of  God  revere  ! 

Go — and  with  foreheads  meekly  bowed 
Present     your    prayers — go — and    rejoice 
aloud — 

The  Holy  One  will  hear! 
And   what    'mid   silence  deep,   with  faith 

sincere, 
Ye,  in  your  low  and  undisturbed  estate, 
Shall  simply  feel  and  purely  meditate 
Of    warnings — from    the    unprecedented 
might,  [closed; 

Which,  in  our  time,  the  impious  have  dis- 
And   of  more  arduous  duties  thence  im- 
posed 
Upon  the  future  advocates  of  right ; 
Of  mysteries  revealed, 
And  judgments  unrepealed, — 
Of  earthly  revolution, 
And  final  retribution, — 
To  his  omniscience  will  appear 
An  offering  not  unworthy  to  find  place, 
On  this  high  Day  of  Thanks,  before  the 
Throne  of  Grace  ! 


190 


lltaorafe  of  a  tour  on  the  dTonfhmxi 


1820. 
DEDICATION. 


Dear  fellow-travellers  !  think  not  that  the  muse 
Presents  to  notice  these  memorial  lays, 
Hoping  the  general  eye  thereon  will  gaze, 
As  on  a  mirror  that  gives  back  the  hues 
Of  living  nature  :  no— though  free  to  choose 
The  greenest  bowers,  the  most  inviting  ways, 
The  fairest  landscapes  and  the  brightest  days, 
Her  skill  she  tried  with  less  ambitious  views. 
For  you  she  wrought ; — ye  only  can  supply 


The  life,  the  truth,  the  beauty  :  she  conndes 
In  that  enjoyment  which  with  you  abides, 
Trusts  to  your  love  and  vivid  memory ; 
Thus  far  contented,  that  for  you  her  verse 
Shall    lack    not   power    the   "  meltinp   soul  to 
pierce." 

W    Wordsworth 
Rydal  Mount,  January,  1822 


FISH-WOMEN  ON  LANDING  AT  CALAIS. 

Tis  said,  fantastic  ocean  doth  enfold 
The  likeness  of  whate'er  on  land  is  seen; 
But,  if  the  Nereid  sisters  and  their  queen, 
Above  whose  heads  the  tide  so  long  hath 

rolled, 
The  dames  resemble  whom  we  here  behold, 
How  terrible  beneath  the  opening  waves 
To  sink,   and  meet  them  in  their  fretted 

caves, 
Withered,  grotesque — immeasurably  old, 
Andshrill  and  fierce  in  accent! — Fear  itnot; 
For  they  earth's  fairest  daughters  do  excel; 
1'ure  undecaying  beauty  is  their  lot; 
Their  voices  into  liquid  music  swell, 
Thrilling    each    pearly    cleft    and    sparry 

grot —  [nymphs  dwell ! 

The     undisturbed     abodes     where     sea- 


BRUGES.* 

Bruges  I  saw  attired  with  golden  light 
(Streamed  from  the  west)  as  with  a  robe  of 
power :  [hour, 

Tis  passed   away  ; — and  now  the  sunless 
That  slowly  introducing  peaceful  night 
IJest  suits  with  fallen  grandeur,  to  my  sight 
Offers  the  beauty,  the  magnificence, 
And  sober  graces,  left  her  for  defence 


*  This  is  not  the  first  poetical  tribute  which  in 
our  times  has  been  paid  to  this  beautiful  city. 
Mr  Southey,  in  the  "  Poet's  Pilgrimage,"  speaks 


Against  the  injuries  of  time,  the  spite 
Of  fortune,  and  the  desolating  storms 
Of  future  war.   Advance  not — spare  tc  hide, 
O  gentle  power  of  darkness  ! — these  mild 

hues; 
Obscure  not  yet  these  silent  avenues 
Of  stateliest  architecture,  where  the  forms 
Of  nun-like  females,  with  soft  motion  glide  ! 


of  it  in  lines  which  I  cannot  deny  myself  the 
pleasure  of  connecting  with  my  own  : — 

"  Time  hath  not  wronged  her,  nor   hath   ruin 
sought 

Rudely  her  splendid  structures  to  destroy, 
Save  in  those  recent  days,  with  evil  fraught, 

When  mutability,  in  drunken  joy 
Triumphant,  and  from  all  restraint  released, 
Let  loose  her  fierce  and  many-headed  beast. 

"  But  for  the  scars  in  that  unhappy  rage 
Inflicted,  firm  she  stands  and  undecayed  ; 

Like  our  first  sires,  a  beautiful  old  age 
Is  hers  in  venerable  years  arrayed  ; 

And  yet,  to  her,  benignant  stars  may  bring, 

What  fate  denies  to  man, —  a  second  spring 

"When  I  may  read  of  tilts  in  days  of  old, 
And  tourneys  graced  by  chieftains  of  renown, 

Fair  dames,  grave  citizens,  and  warriors  bold, 
If  fancy  would  portray  some  stately  town, 

Which  for  such  pomp  fit  theatre  should  be, 

Fair  Bruges,  I  shall  then  remember  thee." 

In  this  city  are  many  vestiges  of  the  splendour 
of  the  Burgundian  dukedom  ;  and  the  long  black 
mantle  universally  worn  by  the  females  is  pro- 
bably a  remnant  of  the  old  Spanish  connexion, 
which,  if  I  do  not  much  deceive  myseif,  is  trace- 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


101 


BRUGES. 

THE  spirit  of  antiquity — enshrined     [song, 
In   sumptuous   buildings,    vocal   in   sweet 
In  picture,  speaking  with  heroic  tongue, 
And  with  devout  solemnities  entwined — 
Strikes   to   the   seat   of  grace   within   the 

mind:  [along; 

Hence  forms  that  glide  with  swan-like  ease 
Hence    motions,    even    amid    the   vulgar 

throng, 
To  an  harmonious  decency  confined; 
As  if  the  streets  were  consecrated  ground, 
The  city  one  vast  temple — dedicate 
To  mutual  respect  in  thought  and  deed  ; 
To  leisure,  to  forbearances  sedate  ; 
To  social  cares  from  jarring  passions  freed  ; 
A  nobler  peace  than  that  in  deserts  found  ! 


AFTER   VISITING    THE   FIELD   OF 
WATERLOO. 

A   WINGED    goddess,    clothed    in   vesture 

wrought  [bold 

Of  rainbow  colours;    one  whose  port  was 

Whose  overburthened  hand  could  scarcely 

hold  [brought, 

The  glittering  crowns  and  garlands  which  it 

Hovered  in  air  above  the  far-famed  spot. 

She  vanished — leaving  prospect  blank  and 

cold 


ible  in  the  grave  deportment  of  its  inhabitants. 
Bruges  is  comparatively  little  disturbed  by  that 
curious  contest,  or  rather  conflict,  of  Flemish 
with  French  propensities  in  matters  of  taste,  so 
conspicuous  through  other  parts  of  Flanders. 
The  hotel  to  which  we  drove  at  Ghent  furnished 
an  odd  instance.  In  the  passages  were  paint- 
ings and  statues,  after  the  antique,  of  Hebe  and 
Apollo  ;  and  in  the  garden  a  little  pond,  about 
a  yard  and  a  half  in  diameter,  with  a  weeping 
willow  bending  over  it,  and  under  the  shade  of 
that  tree,  in  the  centre  of  the  pond,  a  wooden 
painted  statue  of  a  Dutch  or  Flemish  boor,  look- 
ing ineffably  tender  upon  his  mistress,  and  em- 
bracing her.  A  living  duck,  tethered  at  the  feet 
of  the  statues,  alternately  tormented  a  miserable 
eel  and  itself  with  endeavours  to  escape  from  its 
bonds  and  prison.  Had  we  chanced  to  espy  the 
hostess  of  the  hotel  in  this  quaint  rural  retreat, 
the  exhibition  would  have  been  complete.  She 
was  a  true  Flemish  figure,  in  the  dress  of  the 
days  of  Holbein,— her  symbol  of  office  a  weighty 
bunch  of  keys,  pendent  from  her  portly  waist. 
In  Brussels,  the  modern  taste  in  costume,  archi- 
tecture, etc.,  has  got  the  mastery  ;  in  Ghent 
there  is  a  struggle  ;  but  in  Bruges  old  images 
are  still  paramount,  and  an  air  of  monastic  life 
among  the  quiet  goings-on  of  a  thinly-peopled 
city  is  inexpressibly  soothing  ;  a  pensive  grace 
seems  to  be  cast  over  all,  even  the  very  children 
—Extract  from  Journal. 


Of  wind-swept  corn  that  wide  around  us 

rolled 
In  dreary  billows,  wood,  and  meagre  cot, 
And  monuments  that  soon  must  disappear  • 
Yet  a  dread  local  recompense  we  found  ; 
While  glory  seemed  betrayed,  while  patriot 

zeal  [feel 

Sank  in  our  hearts,  we  felt  as  men  should 
With  such  vast  hoards  of  hidden  carnage 

near,  [ground  ! 

And    horror    breathing    from    the    silent 


SCENERY   BETWEEN  NAMUE  AND   LIEGF.. 

What  lovelier  home   could  gentle  fancy 

choose  ?  [and  plains, 

Is  this  the  stream,  whose  cities,  heights, 
War's    favourite    playground,     are     with 

crimson  stains 
Familiar,  as  the  morn  with  pearly  dews  ? 
The   morn,    that    now,    along    the    silver 

Meuse,  [swains 

Spreading  her  peaceful  ensigns,  calls  the 
To   tend   their    silent    boats  and   ringing 

wains,  [bestrews 

Or  strip  the  bough  whose  mellow  fruit 
The  ripening  corn  beneath  it.  As  mine  eyes 
Turn  from  the  fortified  and  threatening  lull, 
How   sweet    the   prospect   of  yon  watery 

glade,  [shade, 

With  its  gray  rocks  clustering  in  pensive 
That,  shaped  like  old  monastic  turrets,  rise 
From  the  smooth  meadow  ground,  serene 

and  still ! 


AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 

WAS  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo, 

That  we  approached  the  seat  of  Charle- 

maine?  [strain 

To  sweep  from  many  an  old  romantic 
That  faith  which  no  devotion  may  renew  ! 
Why  does  this  puny  church  present  to  view 
Its  feeble  columns?  and  that  scanty  chair! 
This   sword   that  one  of  our  weak  times 

might  wear; 
Objects  of  false  pretence,  or  meanly  true  ! 
If  from  a  traveller's  fortune  I  might  claim 
A  palpable  memorial  of  that  day, 
Then  would  I  seek  the  Pyrenean  breach 
Which  Roland  clove  with  huge  two-handed 

sway, 
And  to  the  enormous  labour  left  his  name, 
Where  unremitting  frosts  the  rocky  crescent 

bleach.* 


*  Let  a  wall  of  rocks  be  imagined  from   three 
to  six  hundred   feet   in   height,   and  rising   hi- 


192 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  COLOGNE. 

Oh,  for  the  help  of  angels  to  complete 
This  temple — angels  governed  by  a  plan 
How  gloriously  pursued  by  daring  man, 
Studious  that  He  might  not  disdain   the 

seat  [heat 

Who  dwells  in  heaven  !     But  that  inspiring 
Hath  failed ;   and  now,  ye  powers  !  whose 

gorgeous  wings 
And  splendid  aspect  yon  emblazonings 
But  faintly  picture,  'twere  an  office  meet 
For  you,  on  these  unfinished  shafts  to  try 
The  midnight  virtues  of  your  harmony  : — 
This  vast  design  might  tempt  you  to  repeat 
Strains  that  call  forth  upon  empyreal  ground 
Immortal  fabrics — rising  to  the  sound 
Of  penetrating  harps  and  voices  sweet  ! 


IN  A  CARRIAGE,  UPON  THE  BANKS  OF 
THE  RHINE. 

(\mid  this  dance  of  objects  sadness  steals 
O'er  the  defrauded  heart — while  sweeping 
As  in  a  fit  of  Thespian  jollity,  [by, 

Beneath  ^°r    vine-leaf  crown    the   green 

earth  reels: 
Backward,  in  rapid  evanescence,  wheels 
The  venerable  pageantry  of  time, 
Each  beetling   rampart — and  each   tower 

sublime, 
And  what  the  dell  unwillingly  reveals 
Of  lurking  cloistral   arch,    through    trees 

espied  [repine  ? 

Near   the    bright   river's  edge.     Yet   why 
Pedestrian  liberty  shall  yet  be  mine 
To  muse,  to  creep,  to  halt  at  will,  to  gaze  : 
Freedom  which  youth  with  copious  hand 

supplied, 
May  in  fit  measure  bless  my  later  days. 


Loud  its  threatenings — let  them  not 

Drown  the  music  of  a  song, 
Breathed  thy  mercy  to  implore, 
j  Where  these  troubled  waters  roar  ! 

Saviour,  in  Thy  image,  seen 

Bleeding  on  that  precious  rood  ; 
i  If,  while  through  the  meadows  green 

Gently  wound  the  peaceful  flood, 
We  forgot  Thee,  do  not  Thou 
Disregard  Thy  suppliants  now  ! 

Hither,  like  yon  ancient  tower 
Watching  o'er  the  river's  bed, 

Fling  the  shadow  of  Thy  power, 
Else  we  sleep  among  the  dead  ; 
I  Thou  who  trod'st  the  billowy  sea, 

Shield  us  in  our  jeopardy ! 

Guide  our  bark  among  the  waves  ; 

Through  the  rocks  our  passage  smooth  ; 
Where  the  whirlpool  frets  and  raves 

Let  Thy  love  its  anger  soothe  : 
All  our  hope  is  placed  in  Thee  ; 
Miserere  Domine  !  * 


HYMN,  FOR  THE  BOATMEN  AS  THEY 
APPROACH  THE  RAPIDS,  UNDER  THE 
CASTLE    OF   HEIDELBERG. 

Jesu!  bless  our  slender  boat, 
By  the  current  swept  along; 


tween  France  and  Spain,  so  as  physically  to 
separate  the  two  kingdoms — let  us  fancy  this 
wall  curved  like  a  crescent,  with  its  convexity 
towards  France.  Lastly,  let  us  suppose,  that 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  wall  a  breach  of  three 
hundred  feet  wide  has  been  beaten  down  by  the 
famous  Roland,  and  we  may  have  a  good  idea 
of  what  the  mountaineers  call  the  '  Breche  de 
Roland.      — Raymond's  Pyrenees. 


THE   SOURCE   OF   THE   DANUBE. 

Not,  like  his  great  compeers,  indignantly! 
Doth  Danube  spring  to  life  !  The  wan- 
dering stream  [gleam 
(Who  loves  the  cross,  yet  to  the  crescent's 
Unfolds  a  willing  breast)  with  infant  glee 
Slips  from  his  prison  walls  :  and  fancy,  free 
To  follow  in  his  track  of  silver  light, 
Reaches,   with  one  brief  moment's   rapid 

flight, 
The  vast  encincture  of  that  gloomy  sea 


*  See  the  beautiful  song  in  Mr.  Coleridge's 
tragedy  of  "  Remorse." 

t  Before  this  quarter  of  the  Black  Forest  was 
inhabited,  the  source  of  the  Danube  might  have 
suggested  some  of  those  sublime  images  which 
Armstrong  has  so  finely  described  ;  at  present, 
the  contrast  is  most  striking.  The  spring  ap- 
pears in  a  capacious  stone  basin  upon  the  front 
of  a  ducal  palace,  with  a  pleasure-ground  oppo- 
site ;  then,  passing  under  the  pavement,  takes 
the  form  of  a  little,  clear,  bright,  black,  vigorous 
rill,  barely  wide  enough  to  tempt  the  agility  of  a 
child  five  years  old  to  leap  over  it, — and  enter- 
ing the  garden,  it  joins,  after  a  course  of  a  few 
hundred  yards,  a  stream  much  more  considera- 
ble than  itself.  The  copiousness  of  the  spring  at 
Donischingen  must  have  procured  for  it  the 
honour  of  being  named  the  source  of  the 
Danube 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


193 


Whose  waves  the  Orpncan  lyre  forbad  to 
meet  [;jars— 

In  conflict ;  whose  ro"gh  winds  forgot  their 
To  waft  the  heroic  progeny  of  Greece, 
When  the  first  ship  sailed  for  the  golden 
Argo,  exalted  for  that  daring  feat       [fleece, 
To  bear  in  heaven  a  shape  distinct  with  stars. 


MEMORIAL  NEAR  THE  OUTLET  OF  THE 
LAKE  OF  THUN. 

DEM 
ANDENKEN 

ME1NES  FREUNDES 

ALOYS  REDING 

MDCCCXVIII. 


Aloys  Reding,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  cap- 
tain-general of  the  Swiss  forces,  which,  with 
a  courage  and  perseverance  worthy  of  the 
cause,  opposed  the  flagitious  and  too  success- 
ful attempt  of  Bonaparte  to  subjugate  their 
country. 


Around  a  wild  and  woody  hill 
A  gravelled  pathway  treading, 
We  reached  a  votive  stone  that  bears 
The  name  of  Aloys  Reding. 

Well  judged  the  friend  who  placed  it  there 
For  silence  and  protection, 
And  haply  with  a  finer  care 
Of  dutiful  affection. 

The  sun  regards  it  from  the  west, 
Sinking  in  summer  glory; 
And,  while  he  sinks,  affords  a  type 
Of  that  pathetic  story. 

And  oft  he  tempts  the  patriot  Swiss 
Amid  the  grove  to  linger  ; 
Till  all  is  dim,  save  this  bright  stone 
Touched  by  his  golden  finger. 


COMPOSED   IN   ONE   OF  THE   CATHOLIC 
CANTONS   OF    SWITZERLAND. 

Doomed  as  we  are  our  native  dust 
To  wet  with  many  a  bitter  shower, 
It  ill  befits  us  to  disdain 
The  altar,  to  deride  the  fane, 
Where  patient  sufferers  bend,  in  trust 
To  win  a  happier  hour. 

I  love,  where  spreads  the  village  lawn, 
Upon  some  knee-worn  cell  to  gaze  ; 


Hail  to  the  firm  unmoving  cross, 
Aloft,  where  pines  their  branches  toss  J 
And  to  the  chapel  far  withdrawn, 
That  lurks  by  lonely  ways  ! 

Where'er  we  roam — along  the  brink 
Of  Rhine— or  by  the  sweeping  Fo, 
Through  Alpine  vale,  or  champain  wide 
Whate'cr  we  look  on,  at  our  side 
Be  Charity, — to  bid  us  think, 
And  feel,  if  we  would  know. 


ON  APPROACHING  the  staub-bach, 

LAUTERBRUNNEN.* 

Tracks  let  me  follow  far  from  human  kind 
Which    these   illusive   greetings    may   not 

reach  ; 
Where  only  nature  tunes  her  voice  to  teach 
Careless  pursuits,  and  raptures  unconfined. 
No  mermaid  warbles  (to  allay  the  wind 
That  drives  some  vessel  toward  a  dangerous 

beach) 
More  thrilling  melodies  \  no  caverned  witch, 
Chanting  a  love-spell,  ever  intertwined 
Notes  shrill  and  wild  with  art  more  musical ! 
Alas !  that  from  the  lips  of  abject  want 
And  idleness  in  tatters  mendicant 
The  strain  should  flow— enjoyment  to  en- 
thral, 
And  with  regret  and  useless  pity  haunt 
This  bold,  this  pure,  this  sky-born  waterfall! 


*  "The  Staub-bach"  is  a  narrow  stream,  which, 
after  a  long  course  on  rue  heights,  comes  to  the 
sharp  edge  of  a  somewhat  overhanging  preci- 
pice, overleaps  it  with  a  bound,  and,  after  a  fall 
of  930  feet,  forms  again  a  rivulet.  The  vocal 
powers  of  these  musical  beggars  may  seem  to  be 
exaggerated  ;  but  this  wilj  and  savage  air  was 
utterly  unlike  any  sounds  I  had  ever  heard  ;  the 
notes  reached  me  from  a  distance,  and  on  what 
occasion  they  were  sung  I  could  not  guess,  only 
they  seemed  to  belong,  in  some  way  or  other,  to 
the  waterfall  ;  and  reminded  rne  of  religious 
services  chanted  to  streams  and  fountains  in 
pagan  times.  Mr.  Southey  has  thus  accurately 
characterized  the  peculiarity  of  this  music: 
"While  we  were  at  the  waterfall,  some  half 
score  peasants,  chiefly  women  and  girls,  assem- 
bled just  out  of  reach  of  the  spring,  and  set  up, 
— surely,  the  wildest  chorus  that  ever  was  heard 
by  human  ears,— a  song  not  of  articulate  sounds, 
but  in  which  the  voice  was  used  as  a  mere  instru- 
ment of  music,  more  flexible  than  any  which 
art  could  produce, — sweet,  powerful,  and  thril- 
ling beyond  description." — See  notes  to  "  A 
Tale  of  Paraguay." 


194 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


THE   FALL   OF   THE  AAR.— HANDEC. 

From  the  fierce  aspect  of  this  river  throwing 
His  giant  body  o'er  the  steep  rock's  brink, 
Back  in  astonishment  and  fear  we  shrink  : 
But  gradually  a  calmer  look  bestowing, 
Flowers  we  espy  beside  the  torrent  growing; 
Flowers  that  peep  forth  from  many  a  cleft 

and  chink, 
And,  irom  the  whirlwind  of  his  anger  drink 
Hues  ever  fresh,  in  rocky  fortress  blowing  : 
1  hey  suck,  from  breath  that  threatening  to 

destroy 
Is  more  benignant  than  the  dewy  eve, 
Beauty,  and  life,  and  motions  as  of  joy: 
Nor  doubt  but  He  to  whom  yon  pine-trees 

nod 
Their  heads  in  sign  of  worship,  nature's  God, 
These  humbler  adorations  will  receive. 


Hung  round  its  top,  on  wings  that  changed 
their  hues  at  will.  [were 

Clouds  do  not  name  those  visitants  ;  they 
The  very  angels  whose  authentic  lays, 
Sung  from  that  heavenly  ground  in  middle 
aiT>  [raise 

Made  known  the  spot  where  piety  should 
A  holy  structure  to  the  Almighty's  praise. 
Resplendent  apparition  !  if  in  vain 
My  ears  did  listen,  'twas  enough  to  gaze  ; 
And  watch  the  slow  departure  of  the  train. 
Whose  skirts  the  glowing  mountain  thirsted 
to  detain  ! 


SCENE  ON   THE   LAKE   OF   BRIENTZ. 

"  What  know  we  of  the  blest  above 
But  that  they  sing  and  that  they  Jove?" 
Yet,  if  they  ever  did  inspire 
A  mortal  hymn,  or  shaped  the  choir, 
Now,  where  those  harvest  damsels  float 
Homeward  in  their  rugged  boat, 
(While  all  the  ruffling  winds  are  fled, 
Each  slumbering  on  some  mountain's  head) , 
Now,  surely,  hath  that  gracious  aid 
Been  felt,  that  influence  is  displayed. 
Pupils  of  Heaven,  in  order  stand 
The  rustic  maidens,  every  hand 
Upon  a  sister's  shoulder  laid, — 
To  chant,  as  glides  the  boat  alone;, 
A  simple,  but  a  touching,  song  ;  » 
To  chant,  as  angels  do  above, 
The  melodies  of  peace  in  love  ! 


ENGELBERG,   THE  HILL  OF  ANGELS. 
For  gentlest  uses,  oft-times  nature  takes 
The  work  of  fancy  from  her  willing  hands  ; 
And  such  a  beautiful  creation  makes 
As  renders  needless  spells  and  magic  wands, 
And  for  the  boldest  tale  belief  commands. ' 
When  first  mine  eyes  beheld  that  famous  hill 
The  sacred  Engelberg;*  celestial  bands, 
With  intermingling  motions  soft  and  still, 

*  The  convent  whose  site  was  pointed  out,  ac- 
cording to  tradition,  in  this  manner,  is  seated  at 
its  base.  The  architecture  of  the  building  is 
unimpressive,  but  the  situation  is  wor  thy  of 
Mie  honour  which  the  imagination  of  the  moun- 
taineers has  conferred  upon  it. 


OUR   LADY   OF   THE   SNOW. 

Meek  Virgin  mother,  more  benign 
Than  fairest  star  upon  the  height 
Of  thy  own  mountain  t  set  to  keep 
Lone  vigils  through  the  hours  of  sleep, 
What  eye  can  look  upon  thy  shrine 
Untroubled  at  the  sight? 

These  crowded  offerings  as  they  hang 

In  sign  of  misery  relieved, 

Even  these,  without  intent  of  theirs, 

Report  of  comfortless  despairs, 

Of  many  a  deep  and  cureless  pang 

And  confidence  deceived. 

To  thee,  in  this  aerial  cleft, 
As  to  a  common  centre,  tend 
All  sufferings  that  no  longer  rest 
On  mortal  succour,  all  distrest 
That  pine  of  human  hope  bereft, 
Nor  wish  for  earthly  friend. 

And  hence,  O  Virgin  mother  mild  ! 
Though  plenteous  flowers  around  thee  blow. 
Not  only  from  the  dreary  strife 
Of  winter,  but  the  storms  of  life, 
Thee  have  thy  votaries  aptly  styled 
Our  Lady  of  the  Snow. 

Even  for  the  man  who  stops  not  here, 

But  down  the  irriguous  valley  hies, 

Thy  very  name,  O  lady !  flings, 

O'er  blooming  fields  and  gushing  springs, 

A  holy  shadow  soft  and  dear 

Of  chastening  sympathies ! 

Nor  falls  that  intermingling  shade 
To  summer  gladsomeness  unkind  ; 
It  chastens  only  to  requite 
With  gleams  of  fresher,  purer  light ; 
While,  -o'er  the  flower-enamelled  glade, 
More  sweetly  breathes  the  wind. 

t  Mount  Righi 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


19r, 


But  on  !— a  tempting  downward  way, 
A  verdant  path  before  us  lies  ; 
Clear  shines  the  glorious  sun  above  ; 
Then  give  free  course  to  joy  and  love, 
Deeming  the  evil  of  the  day 
Sufficient  for  the  \*ise. 


EFFUSION   IN  PRESENCE  OF  THE  PAINTED 
TOWER    OF  TELL,    AT   ALTORE. 

This  tower  is  said  to  stand  upon  the  spot  where 
grew  the  linden-tree  against  which  his  son  was 
placed,  when  the  father's  archery  was  put  to 
proof  under  circumstances  so  famous  in  Swiss 
history. 

What  though  the  Italian  pencil  wrought 

not  here, 
Nor  such  fine  skill  as  did  the  meed  bestow 
On  Marathonian  valour,  yet 


THE  TOWN   OF   SCHWYTZ. 

By  antique  fancy  trimmed— though  lowly, 

bred 
To  dignity— in  thee,  O  Schwytz  !  are  seen 
The  genuine  features  of  the  golden  mean  ; 
Equality  by  prudence  governed, 
Or  jealous  nature  ruling  in  her  stead  ; 
And,  therefore,   art  thou  blest  with  peace. 

serene  [green 

As  that  of  the  sweet  fields  and  meadows 
In  unambitious  compass  round  thee  spread, 
Majestic  Berne,  high  on  her  guardian  steep, 
Holding  a  central  stvition  of  command, 
Might  well  be  styled  thisnoble  body's  head  ; 
Thou,  lodged  'mid  mountainous  entrench 

ments  deep, 
Its  heart  ;  and 
Thy  name,  < 


lSS     OF   ST. 


Loold  ! 

«i 

our  time,   in  frolic  fancy 

But  when  that  calm  spectatress  from  on 
high 

Looks  down— the  bright  and  solitary  moon, 

Who  never  gazes  but  to  beautify  ; 

And  snow-fed  torrents,  which  the  blaze  of 

noon 
Roused  into  fury,  murmur  a  soft  tune 
That  fosters  peace,  and  gentleness  recalls  ; 
Then  might  the  passing  monk  receive  a 
boon  [walls, 

Of  saintly   pleasure    from   these  pictured 
While,  on  the  warlike  groups,  the  mellow- 
ing lustre  falls. 

How  blest  the  souls  who  when  their  trials 

come 
Yield  not  to  terror  or  despondency, 
But  face  like  that  sweet  boy  their  mortal 

doom, 
Whose  head  the  ruddy  apple  tops,  while  he 
Expectant  stands  beneath  the  linden  tree, 
Not  quaking  like  the  timid  forest  game  ; 
He  smiles — the  hesitating  shaft  to  free, 
'  Assured  that  Heaven  its  justice  will  pro- 
claim, [aim. 
And  to  his  father  give   its  own  unerring 


LISTEN — but  no  faculty  of  mine 
Avails  those  modulations  to  detect, 
Which,  heard  in  foreign  lands,    the  Swiss 

affect 
With  tenderest  passion,  leaving  him  to  pine 
(So  fame  reports)  and  die  ;  his  sweet- 
breathed  kine  [decked 
Remembering,  and  green  Alpine  pastures 
With  vernal  flowers.      Yet   may   we  not 

reject 
The  tale  as  fabulous. — Here  while  I  recline 
Mindful  how  others  love  this  simple  strain, 
Even  here,  upon  this  glorious   mountain 

named 
Of  God  himself  from  dread  pre-eminence — 
Aspiring  thoughts,  by  memory  reclaimed, 
Yield  to  the  music's  touching  influence, 
And  joys  of  distant  home  my  heart  enchain. 


THE    CHURCH   OF   SAN   SALVADOR,    SEEN 
FROM  THE  LAKE   OF   LUGANO. 

This  church  was  almost  destroyed  by  lightning 
a  few  years  ago,  but  the  altar  and  the  image 
of  the  patron  saint  were  untouched.  The 
mount,  upon  the  summit  of  which  the  church 
is  built,   stands   amid   the    intricacies   of  the 


*  Nearly  500  years  (says  Ebel,  speaking  of  the 
French  invasion)  had  elapsed,  when,  for  the  first 
time,  foreign  soldier*  were  seen  upon  the  fron- 
tiers of  this  smail  canton,  to  impose  upon  it  the 
laws  of  theii  'governors. 


196 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


Lake  of  Lugano  :  and  is,  from  a  hundred 
points  of  view,  its  principal  ornament,  rising 
to  the  height  of  2000  feet,  and,  on  one  side, 
nearly  perpendicular.  The  ascent  is  toilsome; 
but  the  traveller  who  performs  it  will  be  amply 
rewarded.  Splendid  fertility,  rich  woods,  and 
dazzling  waters,  seclusion  and  confinement  of 
view  contrasted  with  sea-like  extent  of  plain 
fading  into  the  sky  ;  and  this  again,  in  an  op- 
posite quarter,  with  an  horizon  of  the  loftiest 
and  boldest  Alps— unite  in  composing  a  pros- 
pect more  diversified  by  magnificence,  beauty, 
and  sublimity,  than  perhaps  any  other  point 
in  Europe  of  so  inconsiderable  an  elevation 
commands. 

Thou  sacred  pile  !  whose  turrets  rise 
From  yon  steep  mountain's  loftiest  stage, 
Guarded  by  lone  San  Salvador  ; 
Sink  (if  thou  must)  as  heretofore, 
v£,  sulphurous  bolts  a  sacrifice, 
But  nee."  to  human  rage  ! 

On  Horeb's  top,  tn  Sinai,  deigned 
To  rest  the  universal  !?rd  : 
Why  leap  the  fountains  feSjn  t hejr.^fc 
Where  everlasting  bounty  dweiiac 
That,  while  the  creature  is  sustained, 
His  God  may  be  adored. 

Cliffs,  fountains,  rivers,  seasons,  times, 
Let  all  remind  the  soul  of  heaven  ; 
Our  slack  devotion  needs  them  all 
And  faith,  so  oft  of  sense  the  thrall, 
While  she,  by  aid  of  nature,  climbs, 
May  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

Glory,  and  patriotic  love, 

And  all  the  pomps  of  this  frail  "spot 

Which   men  call  earth, "  have  yearned  to 

Associate  with  the  simply  meek,  [seek, 

Religion  in  the  sainted  grove, 

And  in  the  hallowed  grot. 

Thither,  in  times  of  adverse  shocks, 
Of  fainting  hopes  and  backward  wills, 
Did  mighty  Tell  repair  of  old— 
A  hero  cast  in  nature's  mould, 
Deliverer  of  the  steadfast  rocks 
And  of  the  ancient  hills  ! 

He,  too,  of  battle-martyrs  chief  ! 
Who,  to  recall  his  daunted  peers, 
For  victory  shaped  an  open  space, 
By  gathering  with  a  wide  embrace, 
Into  his  single  heart,  a  sheaf 
Of  fatal  Austrian  spears.* 


*  Arnold  Winkelreid,  at  the  battle  of  Sem- 
pach,  broke  an  Austrian  phalanx  in  this  manner. 


FORT   FUENTES. 

"The  ruins  of  Fort  Fuentes  form  the  crest  of 
a  rocky  eminence  that  rises  from  the  plain  at 
the  head  of  the  Lake  of  Como,  commanding 
views  up  the  Valteline,  and  toward  the  town 
of  Chiavenna.  The  prospect  in  the  latter  di- 
rection is  characterized  by  melancholy  sub- 
limity We  rejoiced  at  being  favoured  with  a 
distinct  view  of  those  Alpine  heights  ;  not,  as 
we  had  expected  from  the  breaking  up  of  the 
storm,  steeped  in  celestial  glory,  yet  in  com- 
munion with  clouds  floating  or  stationary — 
scatterings  from  heaven.  The  ruin  is  interest- 
ing, both  in  mass  and  detail.  An  inscription 
upon  elaborately-sculptured  marble  lying  on 
the  ground,  records  that  the  fort  had  been 
erected  by  Count  Fuentes  in  the  year  1600, 
during  the  reign  of  Philip  the  Third  ;  and  the 
chapel,  about  twenty  years  after,  by  one  ol 
his  descendants.  Marble  pillars  of  gateways 
are  yet  standing,  and  a  considerable  part  of 
the  chapel  walls  :  a  smooth  green  turf  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  pavement,  and  we  could 
see  no  trace  of  altar  or  image  ;  but  every- 
where something  to  remind  one  of  former 
splendoiii-;  and  of  devastation  and  tumult.  In 
our  ascent  we  had  passed  abundance  of  wild 
vines  intermingled  "'i;K  hcche0  ■  near  the 
ruins  were  some,  ill  tended,  but  growing  will- 
ingly ;  and  rock,  turf,  and  fragments  of  the 
pile,  are  alike  covered  or  adorned  with  ^a  va- 
riety of  flowers,  among  which  the  rose-coloured 
pink  was  growing  in  great  beauty.  While  de- 
scending, we  discovered  on  the  ground,  apart 
from  the  path,  and  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  ruined  chapel,  a  statue  of  a  child  in 
pure  white  marble,  uninjured  by  the  explo- 
sion that  had  driven  it  so  far  down  the  hill. 
'  How  little,'  we  exclaimed,  '  are  these  things 
valued  here  !  Could  we  but  transport  this 
pretty  image  to  our  own  garden  !'  Yet  it 
seemed  it  would  have  been  a  pity  any  one  should 
remove  it  from  its  couch  in  the  wilderness, 
which  may  be  its  own  for  hundreds  of  years." 
— Extract  from  Journal. 

Dread  hour !  when  upheaved  by  war's 

sulphurous  blast,  [stone 

This  sweet-visaged     cherub    of    Parian 

So  far  from  the  holy  inclosure  was  cast, 

To   couch   in  this  thicket  of  brambles 

alone  ; 

To  rest  where  the  lizard  may  bask  in  the 

palm  [or  speck  ; 

Of  his  half-open  hand  pure  from  blemish 

And    the   green,    gilded    snake,    without 

troubling  the  calm  [his  neck. 

Of  the  beautiful  countenance,  twine  round 


The  event  is  one  of  the  most  famous  in  the  an- 
nals of  Swiss  heroism  ;  and  pictures  and  printr 
of  it  are  frequent  throughout  the  country. 


TOUR  ON  TTTF  CONTINENT. 


10! 


Where  haply  (kind  service  to  piety  due  !) 
When  winter  the  grove  of  its  mantle  be- , 
reaves,  [breast)  may  strew 

Some  bird'  (like   our   own  honoured  red- 1 
The  desolate  slumberer  with  moss  and 
with  leaves. 

Fuentes  once  harboured  the  good  and  the 

brave,  [unknown ; 

Nor  to  her  was  the  dance  of  soft  pleasure 

Her  banners  for  festal  enjoyment  did  wave 

While  the  thrill  of  her  fifes  through  the 

mountains  was  blown  : 

Now  gads  the  wild  vine  o'er  the  pathless 

ascent—  [sway, 

Oh,  silence  of  nature,  how  deep  is  thy 

When  the  whirlwind  of  human  destruction 

is  spent,  [passed  away  ! 

Our  tumults  appeased,  and  our  strifes 


THE   ITALIAN   ITINERANT,  AND   THE 
SWISS   GOATHERD. 


Now  that  the  farewell  tear  is  dried, 
Heaven  prosper  thee,  be  hope  thy  guide  ! 
Hope  be  thy  guide,  adventurous  boy  ; 
The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy  ! 
Whether  for  London  bound — to  trill 
Thy  mountain  notes  with  simple  skill  ; 
Or  on  thy  head  to  poise  a  show 
Of  images  in  seemly  row  ; 
The  graceful  form  of  milk-white  steed, 
Or  bird  that  soared  with  Ganymede  ; 
Or  through  our  hamlets  thou  wilt  bear 
The  sightless  Milton,  with  his  hair 
Around  his  placid  temples  curled  ; 
And  Shakspeare  at  his  side— a  freight, 
If  clay  could  think  and  mind  were  weight, 
For  him  who  bore  the  world  ! 
Hope  be  thy  guide,  adventurous  boy ; 
The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy  ! 

But  thou,  perhaps,  (alert  and  free 

Though  serving  sage  philosophy) 

Wilt  ramble  over  hill  and  dale, 

A  vendor  of  the  well-wrought  scale 

Whose  sentient  tube  instructs  to  time 

A  purpose  to  a  fickle  clime  ; 

Whether  thou  choose  this  useful  part, 

Or  minister  to  ,'nnei  art- 

Though robbeJ  ^/-many  acherished  dream, 

And  crossed  by  many  a  shattered  scheme, 

What  stirring  wonders  wilt  thou  see 

In  the  proud  isle  of  liberty  ! 

Yet  will  the  wanderer  sometimes  pine 


With  thoughts  which  no  delights  can  chase, 

Recal  a  sister's  last  embrace, 
I  His  mother's  neck  entwine  ; 

Nor  shall  forget  the  maiden  coy  [boy  ! 

,  That  would  have  loved  the  bright-haired 

My  song,  encouraged  by  the  grace 

That  beams  from  his  ingenuous  face, 

For  this  adventurer  scruples  not 

To  prophesy  a  golden  lot  ; 

Due  recompence,  and  safe  return 

To  Como's  steeps — his  happy  bourne  ! 

Where  he,  aloft  in  garden  glade, 

Shall  tend,  with  his  own  dark-eyed  maid, 

The  towering  maize,  and  prop  the  twig 

That  ill  supports  the  luscious  fig  ; 

Or  feed  his  eye  in  paths  sun-proof 

With  purple  of  the  trellis-roof, 

That  through  the  jealous  leaves  escapes 

From  Cadenabbia's  pendant  grapes. 

Oh,  might  he  tempt  that  goatherd-child 

To  share  his  wanderings  !  him  whose  look 

Even  yet  my  heart  can  scarcely  brook, 

So  touchingly  he  smiled, 

As  with  a  rapture  caught  from  heaven, 

For  unasked  alms  in  pity  given. 


With  nodding  plumes,  and  lightly  drest 

Like  foresters  in  leaf-green  vest, 

The  Helvetian  mountaineers,  on  ground 

For  Tell's  dsead  archery  renowned, 

Before  the  taVget  stood — to  claim 

The  guerdon  of  the  steadiest  aim. 

Loud  was  the  rifle-gun's  report, 

A  startling  thunder  quick  and  short  ! 

But,  flying  through  the  heights  around, 

Echo  prolonged  a  tell-tale  sound 

Of  hearts  and  hands  alike  "  prepared 

The  treasures  they  enjoy  to  guard  ?" 

And,  if  there  be  a  favoured  hour 

When  heroes  are  allowed  to  quit 

The  tomb,  and  on  the  clouds  to  sit 

With  tutelary  power, 

On  their  descendants  shedding  grace, 

This  was  the  hour,  and  that  the  place. 

But  truth  inspired  the  bards  of  old 
When  of  an  iron  age  they  told, 
Which  to  unequal  laws  gave  birth, 
That  drove  Astraea  from  the  earth. 
A  gentle  boy  (perchance  with  blood 
As  noble  as  the  best  endued, 
But  seemingly  a  thing  despised, 
Even  by  the  sun  and  air  unprized  ; 
For  not  a  tinge  or  flowery  streak 
Appeared  upon  his  tender  cheeki 


198 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


Heart-deaf  to  those  rebounding  notes, 

Of  pleasure,  by  his  silent  goats, 

Sate  far  apart  in  forest  shed, 

Pale,  ragged,  bare  his  feet  and  head, 

Mute  as  the  snow  upon  the  hill, 

And,  as  the  saint  he  prays  to,  stilf. 

Ah,  what  avails  heroic  deed  ? 

What  liberty  ?  if  no  defence 

Ba  won  for  feeble  innocence — 

Father  of  all !  though  wilful  manhood  read 

His  punishment  in  soul-distress,         [ness  ! 

Grant  to  the  morn  of  life  its  natural  blessed- 


THE  LAST  SUPPER,  BY  LEONARDO  DA 
VINCI,  IN  THE  REFECTORY  OF  THE 
CONVENT  OF  MARIA  DELLA  GRAZIA, 
MILAN. 

Though  searching    damps  and  many  an 
envious  flaw  [grace, 

Have  marred  this  work,*  the  calm  ethereal 
The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour's  face, 
The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not    failed  to 

awe 
The  elements  ;  as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 
The  heart  of  the  beholder — and  erase 
(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 
Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 
The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 
Made   to  the  twelve,    survives:  lip,    fore- 
head, cheek, 
And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 
Of  what  it  utters,  t  while  the  unguilty  seek 
Unquestionable  meanings,  still  bespeak 
A  labour  worthy  of  eternal  youth  ! 


THE   ECLIPSE    OF  THE   SUN,    1820. 

High  on  her  speculative  tower 
Stood  science  waiting  for  the  hour 
When  sol  was  destined  to  endure 
That  darkening  of  his  radiant  face 
Which  superstition  strove  to  chase, 
Erewhile,  with  rites  impure. 


*  This  picture  of  the  Last  Supper  has  not  only 
been  grievously  injured  by  time,  but  parts  are 
said  to  have  been  painted  over  again.  These 
niceties  may  be  left  to  connoisseurs. — I  speak  of 
it  as  I  felt.  The  copy  exhibited  in  London  some 
years  ago,  and  the  engraving  by  Morghen,  are 
both  admirable  :  but  in  the  original  is  a  power 
which  neither  of  those  works  has  attained,  or 
even  approached. 

t  "The  hand 

Snug  with  the  voice,  and  this  the  argument." 
-Milton. 


Afloat  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Through  regions  fair  as  Paradise 
We  gaily  passed, — till  nature  wroughr 
A  silent  and  unlooked-for  change, 
That  checked  the  desultory  range 
Of  joy  and  sprightly  thought. 

Where'er  was  dipped  the  toiling  oar, 
The  waves  danced  round  us  as  before, 
As  lightly,  though  of  altered  hue; 
Mid  recent  coolness,  such  as  falls 
At  noon-tide  from  umbrageous  walls 
That  screen  the  morning  dew. 

No  vapour  stretched  its  wings;  no  cloucj 
Cast  far  or  near  a  murky  shroud; 
The  sky  an  azure  field  displayed; 
'Twas  sunlight  sheathed  and  gently 

charmed, 
Of  all  its  sparkling  rays  disarmed, 
And  as  in  slumber  laid: — 

Or  something  night  and  day  between, 
Like  moonshine,  but  the  hue  was  green ; 
Still  moonshine,  without  shadow,  spread 
On  jutting  rock,  and  curved  shore. 
Where  gazed  the  peasant  from  his  doorc 
And  on  the  mountain's  head. 

It  tinged  the  Julian  steeps — it  lay, 
Lugano  !  on  thy  ample  bay; 
The  solemnizing  veil  was  drawn 
O'er  villas,  terraces,  and  towers, 
To  Albogasio's  olive  bowers 
Porlezza's  verdant  lawn. 

But  fancy,  with  the  speed  of  fire, 
Hath  fled  to  Milan's  loftiest  spire, 
And  there  alights  'mid  that  aerial  host 
Of  figures  human  and  divine,! 
White  as  the  snows  of  Apennine 
Indurated  by  frost. 


X  The  statues  ranged  round  the  spire  and 
along  the  roof  of  the  cathedral  of  Milan,  have 
been  found  fault  with  by  persons  whose  exclu- 
sive taste  is  unfortunate  for  themselves.  It  is 
true  that  the  same  expense  and  labour,  judi- 
ciously directed  to  purposes  more  strictly  archi- 
tectural, might  have  much  heightened  the  gene- 
ral effect  of  the  building:  for,  seen  from  the 
ground,  the  statues  appear  diminutive.  But  the 
coup  d'ceil,  from  the  best  point  of  view,  which  is 
half  way  up  the  spire,  must  s...'ike  an  unpreju- 
diced person  with  admiratir'  ^  and  surely  the 
selection  and  arrangemen'  <■  ..he  figures  is  ex- 
quisitely fitted  to  support  i._.  religion  of  the 
country  in  the  imaginations  and  feelings  of  the 
spectator.  It  was  with  great  pleasure  that  i 
saw,  during  the  two  ascents  which  we  made, 
several  children,  of  different  ages,  tripping  jp 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


190 


Awe-stricken  she  beholds  the  array 
That  guards  the  temple  night  and  day; 
Angels  she  sees  that  might  from  heaven 

have  flown, 
And  virgin  saints — who  not  in  vain 
Have  striven  by  purity  to  gain 
The  beatific  crown; 

Sees  long-drawn  files,  concentric  rings 
Each  narrowing  above  each; — the 

wings — 
The  uplifted  palms,  the  silent  marble  lips, 
The  starry  zone  of  sovereign  height,* 
All  steeped  in  this  portentous  light  ! 
All  suffering  dim  eclipse  1 

Thus  after  man  had  fallen,  (if  aught 
These  perishable  spheres  have  wrought 
May  with  that  issue  be  compared) 
Throngs  of  celestial  visages, 
Darkening  like  water  in  the  breeze, 
A  holy  sadness  shared. 

Lo  !  while  I  speak,  the  labouring  sun 
His  glad  deliverance  has  begun  : 
The  cypress  waves  its  sombre  plume 
More  cheerily  ;  and  town  and  tower, 
The  vineyard  and  the  olive  bower, 
Their  lustre  re-assume  ! 

0  ye,  who  guard  and  grace  my  home 
While  in  far-distant  lands  we  roam, 
Was  such  a  vision  given  to  you  ? 

Or,  while  we  looked  with  favoured  eyes, 
Did  sullen  mist  hide  lake  and  skies 
And  mountains  from  your  view  ? 

1  ask  in  vain — and  know  far  '.ess 
If  sickness,  sorrow,  or  distress 

Have  spared  my  dwelling  to  this  hour  : 
Sad  blindness,  but  ordained  to  prove 
Our  faith  in  Heaven's  unfailing  love 
And  all-controlling  power. 


THE  THREE  COTTAGE  GIRLS. 

How  blest  the  maid  whose  heart — yet  free 
From  love's  uneasy  sovereignty, 


and  down  the  slender  spire,  and  pausing  to  look 
around  them,  with  feelings  much  more  animated 
than  Could  have  been  derived  from  these,  or  the 
finest  works  of  art  if  placed  within  easy  reach. 
Remember  also  that  you  have  the  Alps  on  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  the  Apennines,  with  the 
Plain  of  Lombardy  between  ! 

*  Above  the  highest  circle  of  figures  is  a  zone 
of  metallic  stars. 


Beats  with  a  fancy  running  high 
Her  simple  cares  to  magnify  . 
Whom  labour,  never  urged  to  toil, 
Hath  cherished  on  a  healthful  soil, 
Who  knows  not  pomp,  who   heeds  not 
Whose  heaviest  sin  it  is  to  look      [pelf , 
Askance  upon  her  pretty  self 
Reflected  in  some  crystal  brook; 
Whom  grief  hath  spared — who  sheds  no 
But  in  sweet  pity  ;  and  can  hear      [tear 
Another's  praise  from  envy  clear. 

Such,  (but,  O  lavish  nature  !  why 
That  dark  unfathomable  eye, 
Where  lurks  a  spirit  that  replies 
To  stillest  mood  of  softest  skies, 
Yet  hints  at  peace  to  be  oerthrown, 
Another's  first,  and  then  her  own  ?) 
Such,  haply,  yon  Italian  maid, 
Our  lady's  laggard  votaress, 
Halting  beneath  the  chestnut  shade 
To  accomplish  there  her  loveliness  : 
Nice  aid  maternal  fingers  lend  ; 
A  sister  serves  with  slacker  hand  ; 
Then,  glittering  like  a  star,  she  joins  the 
festal  band. 

How  blest  (if  truth  may  entertain 
Coy  fancy  with  a  bolder  strain) 
The  Helvetian  girl — who  daily  braves, 
In  her  light  skiff,  the  tossing  waves, 
And  quits  the  bosom  of  the  deep 
Only  to  climb  the  rugged  steep  ? 
Say  whence  that  modulated  shout  ? 
From  wood-nymph  of  Diana's  throng  ? 
Or  does  the  greeting  to  a  rout 
Of  giddy  bacchanals  belong  ? 
Jubilant  outcry  ! — rock  and  glade 
Resounded — but  the  voice  obeyed 
The  breath  of  an  Helvetian  maid. 

Her  beauty  dazzles  the  thick  wood  ; 
Her  courage  animates  the  flood  ; 
Her  step  the  elastic  green-sward  meets 
Returning  unreluctant  sweets  ; 
The  mountains  (as  ye  heard)  rejoice 
Aloud,  saluted  by  her  voice  ! 
Blithe  paragon  of  Alpine  grace, 
Be  as  thou  art — for  through  thy  veins 
The  blood  of  heroes  runs  its  race  ! 
And  nobly  wilt  thou  brook  the  chains 
That,  for  the  virtuous,  life  prepares  ; 
The  fetters  which  the  matron  wears  ; 
The  patriot  mother's  weight  of  anxious 
cares  ! 

"  Sweet  Highland  girl  !  a  very  shower  t 
Of  beauty  was  thy  earthly  dower, " 

t  See  Address  to  a  Highland  Girl,  p.  147. 

Q 


200 


TOUR  ON  TEE  CONTINENT. 


When  thou  didst  pass  before  my  eyes, 
Gay  vision  under  sullen  skies, 
While  hope  and  love  around  thee  played, 
Near  the  rough  Falls  of  Inversnaid  ! 
Time  cannot  thin  thy  flowing  hair, 
Nor  take  one  ray  of  light  from  thee  ; 
For  in  my  fancy  thou  dost  share 
The  gift  of  immortality; 
And  there  shall  bloom,  with  thee  allied, 
The  votaress  by  Lugano's  side  ; 
And   that    intrepid    nymph,    on    Uri's 
steep,  descried  ! 


THE  COLUMN,  INTENDED  BY  BONA- 
PARTE FOR  A  TRIUMPHAL  EDIFICE 
IN  MILAN,  NOW  LYING  BY  THE 
WAY-SIDE    IN    THE    SIMPLON    PASS. 

Ambition,  following  down  this  far-famed 

slope 
Her  pioneer,  the  snow-dissolving  sun, 
While  clarions  prate  of  kingdoms   to  be 

won, 
Perchance  in  future  ages  here  may  stop  ; 
Taught  to  mistrust  her  flattering  horoscope 
By  admonition  from  this  prostrate  stone  ; 
Memento  uninscribed  of  pride  o'erthrown, 
Vanity's  hieroglyphic  ;  a  choice  trope 
In  fortune's  rhetoric.   Daughter  of  the  rock, 
Rest  where  thy  course  was  stayed  by  power 

divine  !     '  [thine, 

The  soul  transported    sees,   from  hint  of 
Crimes   which   the   great  Avenger's  hand 

provoke.  [guined  heath  ; 

Hears   combats   whistling  o'er  the  ensan- 
What  groans  !  what  shrieks  !  what  quietness 

in  death  ! 


STANZAS    COMPOSED    IN  THE     SIMPLON 
PASS. 

Vallombrosa!   I  longed   in  thy  shadiest 

wood  [floor, 

To  slumber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered 
To  listen  to  Anio's  precipitous  flood, 
When  the  stillness  of  evening  hath  deepened 

its  roar  ;  [to  muse 

To  range  through  the  temples  of  Passtum, 
In   Pompeii,    preserved   by  her  burial   in 

earth  :  [their  hues  ; 

On  pictures  to  gaze,  where  they  drank  in 
And  murmur  sweet  songs  on  the  ground  of 

their  birth  ! 

The  beautv  of  Florence,    the  grandeur  of 

Rome,  [regret  ? 

iould  I  leave  them  unseen,  and  not  yield  to 


With  a  hope  (and  no  more)  for  a  season  tt 

come,  [debt? 

Which  ne'er  may  discharge  the  magnificent 

Thou   fortunate   region  !  whose  greatness 

inurned, 
Aweke  to  new  life  from  its  ashes  and  dust ; 
Twice-glorified-fields  !  if  in  sadness  I  turned 
From  your   infinite   marvels,    the    sadness 
was  just. 

Now,   risen   ere  the   light-footed   chamois 

retires  [guarded  with  snow, 

From     dew-sprinkled     grass     to    heights 
Toward  the  mists  that  hang   over  the  land 

of  my  sires, 
From  the  climate  of  myrtles  contented  I  go. 
My  thoughts  become  bright  like  yon  edging 

of  pines, 
How  black  was  its  hue  in  the  region  of  air  ! 
But,  touched  from  behind   by   the  sun,  it 

now  shines  [silver  hair. 

With   threads  that   seem  part  of  his  own 

Though  the  burthen  of  toil  with  dear  friends 

we  divide,  [fanned 

Though  by  the  same  zephyr  our  temples  are 

As  we  rest  in  the  cool  orange-bower  side  by 

side,  [withstand : 

A  yearning  survives  which  few  hearts  shall 

Each  step  hath   its  value  while  homeward 

we  move  ; —  [appears  ! 

Oh,    joy,    when    the    girdle    of  England 

What  moment  in  life  is  so  conscious  of  love, 

So  rich  in  the  tenderest  sweetness  of  tears  ? 


ECHO  UPON  THE  GEMMI. 

What  beast  of  chase  hath  broken  from  the 

cover? 
Stern  Gemmi  listens  to  as  full  a  cry, 
As  multitudinous  a  harmony, 
As  e'er  did  ring  the  heights  of  Latmos  over, 
When,  from  the  soft  couch  of  her  sleeping 

lover,  [tain-dew 

Up-starting,  Cynthia  skimmed  the  moun- 
In  keen  pursuit — and  gave,    where'er  she 

flew, 
Impetuous  motion  to  the  stars  above  her. 
A  solitary  wolf-dog,  ranging  on 
Through   the   bleak    concave,  wakes   this 

wondrous  chime 
Of  aery  voices  locked  in  unison,  — 
Faint — far  off — near  —  deep — solemn  and 

sublime  ! 
So,  from  the  body  of  one  guilty  deed, 
A    thousand  ghostly  fears,    and   haunting 

thoughts,  proceed  ! 


TOUR  ON  TJTE  CONTINENT. 


201 


fROCKSSIONS.    SUGGESTED  ON  A  SABBATH 
MORNING  IN  THE  VAJ.K  OK  CHAMOUNY. 

'I  0  appease  the  gods  ;  or  public  thanks  to 

yield  ; 
Or  to  solicit  knowledge  of  events, 
Which  in  her  breast  futurity  concealed  ; 
And  that  the  past  might  have  its  true  intents 
Feelingly  told  by  living  monuments  ; 
Mankind  of  yore  were  prompted  to  devise 
Kites  such  as  yet  l'ersepolis  presents 
Graven  on  her  cankered  Walls, — solemnities 
That  moved  in  long  array  before  admiring 

eyes. 

The  Hebrews  thus,  carrying  in  joyful  state 
Thick  boughs  of  palm,  and  willows  from 

the  brook, 
Marched  round  the  altar— to  commemorate 
How,  when  their   course  they  through  the 

desert  took, 
( "muled  by  signs  which  ne'er  the  sky  forsook, 
They  lodged  in  leafy  tents  and  cabins  low  ; 
Green  boughs  were  borne,    while  for  the 

blast  that  shook 
Down  to  the  earth  the  walls  of  Jericho, 
These  shout  hosannas, — these  the  startling 

trumpets  blow  ! 

And  thus,  in  order,  "mid  the  sacred  grove 
Fed  in  the  Libyan  waste  by  gushing  wells, 
The  priests  and  damsels  of  Ammonian  Jove 
Provoked  responses  with  shrill  canticles  ; 
While,  in  a  ship  begirt  with  silver  bells, 
They  round  the  altar  bore  the  horned  god, 
Old  Cham,  the  solar  deity,  who  dwells 
Aloft,  yet  in  a  tilting  vessel  rode, 
When  universal  sea  the   mountains   over- 
flowed . 

Why  speak  of  Roman  pomps  ?  the  haughty 

claims 
Of  chiefs  triumphant  after  ruthless  wars  ; 
The    feast    of  Neptune— and   the    cereal 

games, 
With  images,  and  crowns,  and  empty  cars  ; 
The  dancing  Salii— on  the   shields  of  Mars 
Smiting  with  fury  ;  and  the  deeper  dread 
Scattered  on  all  sides  by  the  hideous  jars 
Of  Corybantian  cymbals,  while  the  head 
Of  Cybele  was  seen,  sublimely  turreted  ! 

At  length  a  spirit  more  subdued  and  soft 
Appeared  to  govern  Christian  pageantries  : 
The  cross,  in  calm  processions,  borne  aloft 
Moved  to  the  chant  of  sober  litanies. 


Even  such,  this  day,  came  wafted  on  the 
breeze  'fair 

From  a  long  train— in    hooded    vestments 
Env,  rapt  —  and  winding,  between  Alpine 
trees  (prayer 

Spirv    and  dark,    around  their    house   01 
Below  the  icy  bed  of  bright  Argentiere. 

Still,  in  the  vivid  freshness  of  a  dream, 
The  pageant  haunts  me  as  it  met  our  eyes  ! 
Still,    with   those   white-robed    shapes  —  a 

living  stream, 
The  glacier  pillars  join  in  solemn  guise.* 
For  the  same  service  by  mysterious  ties  ; 
Numbers  exceeding  credible  account 
Of  number,  pure  and  silent  votaries 
Issuing  or  issued  from  a  wintry  fount  ; 
The    impenetrable   heart    of  that   exalted 

mount ! 

i  They  too,  who  send  so  far  a  holy  gleam 
While  they  the  church  engird  with  motion 

slow, 
A  product  of  that  awful  mountain  seem, 
Poured  from  its  vaults  of  everlasting  snow  ; 
Not  virgin-lilies  marshalled  in  bright  row, 
Not  swans   descending  with  the   stealthy 

tide, 
A  livelier  sisterly  resemblance  show 
Than  the  fair  forms  that  in  long  order  glide, 
Bear  to  the  glacier  band — those  shapes  aloft 

descried  ! 

Trembling,  I  look  upon  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  licentious  craving  in  the  mind 
To  act  the  God  among  external  things, 
To  bind,  on  apt  suggestion,  or  unbind  ; 
And  marvel  not  that   antique  faith  inclined 
To  crowd  the  world  with  metamorphosis, 
Vouchsafed  in  pity  or  in  wrath  assigned  : 
Such   insolent    temptations   wouldst   thou 
miss,  [dark  abyss  ! 

i  Avoid  these  sights  ;  nor  brood  o'er  fable's 


*  This  procession  is  a  part  of  the  sacramental 
service  performed  once  a  month.  In  the  valley 
of  Engelberg  we  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
present  at  the  grand  festival  of  the  virgin— but 
the  procession  on  that  day,  though  consisting  of 
upwards  of  iooo  persons,  assembled  from  all  ihe 
branches  of  the  sequestered  valley,  was  much 
less  striking  (notwithstanding  the  sublimity  of 
the  surrounding  scenery)  :  it  wanted  both  the 
simplicity  of  the  other,  and  the  accompaniment  of 
the  glacier  columns,  whose  sisterly  resemblance  to 
the  moving  figures  gave  it  a  most  beautiful  and 
solemn  peculiarity. 


202 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

The  lamented  youth  whose  untimely  death  gave 
occasion  to  these  elegiac  verses,  was  Frederick  [ 
William    Goddard,    from    Boston    in    North 
America.     He  was  in  his  twentieth  year,  and  ; 
had  resided  for  some  time  with  a  clergyman  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Geneva  for  the  comple- 
tion of   his   education.      Accompanied  by  a  i 
fellow-pupil,  a  native  of  Scotland,  he  had  just 
set  out  on  a  Swiss  tour  when  it  was  his  misfor- 
tune to  fall  in  with  a  friend  of  mine  who  was  j 
hastening  to  join  our  party.     The  travellers, 
after  spending  a  day  together  on  the  road  from 
Berne  and  at   Soleure,   took  leave   of   each  j 
other  at  night,  the  young  man  having  intended 
to  proceed  directly  to  Zurich.     But  early  in 
the   morning  my   friend   found  his   new    ac- 
quaintances, who  were  informed  of   the  ob- 
ject of  his  journey,    and  the  friends  he  was 
in  pursuit    of,  equipped   to  accompany  him.  \ 
We  met  at  Lucerne   the  succeeding  evening,  ' 
and  Mr.  G.  and  his  fellow-student  became  in  \ 
consequence  our  travelling  companions  for  a  j 
couple  of  days.     We  ascended   the   Righi  to-  I 
gether  ;  and,  after  contemplating  the  sunrise 
from  that  noble  mountain,  we  separated  at  an 
hour  and  on  a  spot  well  suited   to  the  parting  | 
of  those  who   were   to  meet  no  more.     Our  j 
party  descended   through  the  valley   of  our  j 
Lady  of  the  Snow,  and  our  late  companions, 
to  Art      We  had  hoped  to  meet  in  a  few  weeks 
at  Geneva  ;  but  on  the  third  succeeding  day 
(on  the  2ist  of  August)  Mr.  Goddard  perished, 
being  overset  in  a  boat  while  crossing  the  lake 
of  Zurich      His  companion  saved  himself  by 
swimming,  and  was  hospitably  received  in  the 
mansion   of  a    Swiss   gentleman  (Mr   Keller 
situated  on  the  eastern  coast  of  the  lake.  The 
corpse  of  poor  G   was  cast  ashore  on  the  estate 
of  the  said  gentleman,  who   generously  per- 
formed all  the  rites  of  hospitality  which  could 
be  rendered  to  the  dead  as  well  as  to  the  living. 
He  caused  the  handsome  mural  monument  to  be 
erected  in  the  church  at   Kusnacht,  which  re- 
cords the  premature  fate  of  the  young  Ameri- 
can, and  on  the  shores  too  of  the  lake  the  tra- 
veller may  read  an  inscription  pointing  out  the 
spot  where  the  body  was  deposited  by  the  waves. 

Lulled  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells, 
Rude  nature's  pilgrims  did  we  go, 
From  the  dread  summit  of  the  Queen* 
Of  mountains  through  a  deep  ravine, 
Where,  in  her  holy  chapel,  dwells 
'  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow.  ' 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  air  was  mild  ; 

Free     were    the    streams   and  green   the 

bowers  : 
As  if,  to  rough  assaults  unknown, 
The  genial  spot  had  ever  shown 
A  countenance  that  sweetly  smiled— 
The  face  of  summer-hours. 

Mount  Righi — Regina  Montium. 


And  we  were  gay,  our  hearts  at  ease  ; 
With  pleasure  dancing  through  the  framt= 
We  journeyed  ;  all  we  knew  of  care — 
Our  path  that  straggled  here  and  there, 
Of  trouble — but  the  fluttering  breeze, 
Of  winter — but  a  name. 

If  foresight  could  have  rent  the  veil 
Of  three  short  days — but  hush — no  more 
Calm  is  the  grave,  and  calmer  none 
Than  that  to  which  thy  cares  are  gone, 
Thou  victim  of  the  stormy  gale, 
Asleep  on  Zurich's  shore  ! 

O  Goddard  !  what  art  thou?— a  name— 
A  sunbeam  followed  by  a  shade  ! 
No  more,  for  aught  that  time  supplies, 
The  great,  the  experienced,   and  the  wise 
Too  much  from  this  frail  earth  we  claim, 
And  therefore  are  betrayed. 

We  met,  while  festive  mirth  ran  wild, 
Where,  from  a  deep  lake's  mighty  urn, 
Forth  slips,  like  an  enfranchised  slave, 
A  sea-green  river,  proud  to  lave, 
With  current  swift  andundefiled, 
The  towers  of  old  Lucerne. 

We  parted  upon  solemn  ground 
Far  lifted  towards  the  unfading  sky  ; 
But  all  our  thoughts  were  then  of  earth 
That  gives  to  common  pleasures  birth  ; 
And  nothing  in  our  hearts  we  found 
That  prompted  even  a  sigh. 

Fetch,  sympathising  powers  of  air, 
Fetch,  ye  that  post  o'er  seas  and  lands, 
Herbs  moistened  by  Virginian  dew, 
A  most  untimely  sod  to  strew, 
That  lacks  the  ornamental  care 
Of  kindred  human  hands  ! 

Beloved  by  every  gentle  muse 

He  left  his  Transatlantic  home  : 

Europe,  a  realized  romance. 

Had  opened  on  his  eager  glance  ; 

What  present  bliss  !— what  golden  views  ! 

What  stores  for  years  to  come  ' 

Though  lodged  within  no  vigorous  frame, 
His  soul  her  daily  task  renewed, 
Blithe  as  the  lark  on  sun-gilt  wings 
High  poised— or  as  the  wren  that  sings 
In  shady  places  to  proclaim 
Her  modest  gratitude. 

Not  vain  is  sadly-uttered  praise  ; 
The  words  of  troth's  memorial  vow 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


203 


Are  ssveet  as  morning  fragrance  shed 
From  flowers  'mid  Goldau's*  ruins  bred  ; 
As  evening's  fondly-lingering  rays, 
On  Righi's  silent  brow. 

Lamented  youth  !  to  thy  cold  clay 
Fit  obsequies  the  stranger  paid  ; 
And  piety  shall  guard  that  stone 
Which  hath  noUeft  the  spot  unknown 
Where  the  wild  waves  resigned  their  prey, 
And  that  which  marks  thy  bed. 

And,  when  thy  mother  weeps  for  thee, 
Lost  youth  !  a  solitary  mother  ; 
This  tribute  from  a  casual  friend 
A  not  unwelcome  aid  may  lend, 
To  feed  the  tender  luxury, 
The  rising  pang  to  smother. 


SKY-PROSPECT.      FROM  THE   PLAIN   OF 
FRANCE. 

Lo  !  in  the  burning  west,  the  craggy  nape 
Of  a  proud  Ararat !  and,  thereupon, 
The  ark,  her  melancholy  voyage  done  ! 
Yon  rampant  cloud  mimics  a  lion's  shape  ; 
There — combats  a  huge  crocodile — agape 
A  golden  spear  to  swallow  !  and  that  brown 
And  massy  grove,  so  near  yon  blazing  town, 
Stirs— and  recedes — destruction  to  escape  ! 
W  t  all  is  harmless  as  the  Elysian  shades 
Where  spirits  dwell  in  undisturbed  repose, 
Silently  disappears,  or  quickly  fades  , — 
Meek  nature's  evening  comment  on  the 

shows 
That  for  oblivion  take  their  daily  birth, 
From  all  the  fuming  vanities  of  earth  ! 


ON     BEING    STRANDED    NEAR    THE   HAR- 
BOUR  OF   BOULOGNE. t 

Why  cast  ye  back  upon  the  Gallic  shore, 
Ye  furious  waves  !  a  patriotic  son 

*  One  of  the  villages  desolated  by  the  fall  of 
part  of  the  mountain  Rossberg. 

t  Near  the  town  of  Boulogne,  and  overhanging 
the  beach,  are  the  remains  of  a  tower  which 
bears  the  name  of  Caligula,  who  here  terminated 
Ins  western  expedition,  of  which  these  sea-shells 
were  the  boasted  spoils.  And  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  these  ruins,  Bonaparte,  standing 
upon  a  mound  of  earth,  harangued  his  "army 
of  England,"  reminded  them  of  the  exploits  of 
Ciesar,  and  pointed  towards  the  white  cliff-,  upon 
which  their  standards  were  to  float.  He  re- 
commended also  a  subscription  to  be  raised 
among  the  soldiery  to  erect  on  that  ground,  in 
memory  of  the  foundation  of  the   "  Legion   of 


Of  England — who  in  hope  her  coast  had 

won,  [o'er? 

His  project  crowned,   his   pleasant    travel 

Well— let  him  pace  this  noted  beach  once 

more, 
That  gave  the  Roman  his  triumphal  shells; 
That  saw  the  Corsican  his  cap  and  bells 
Haughtily  shake,  a  dreaming  conqueror  ! 
Enough  ;  my  country's  cliffs  I  can  behold, 
And  proudly  think,  beside  the  murmuring 

sea, 
Of  checked  ambition,  tyranny  controlled, 
And  folly  cursed  with  endless  memory  • 
These  local  recollections  ne'er  can  cloy  . 
Such  ground  I  from  my  very  heart  enjoy  ! 


AFTER    LANDING.       THE   VALLEY   OF 
DOVER. — NOV.    1820. 

Where  be  the  noisy  followers  of  the  game 
Which  faction  breeds  r  the  turmoil  wheie? 
that  past  [man's  blast, 

Through  Europe,  echoing  from  the  news- 
And  filled  our  hearts  with  grief  for  England's 
shame.  I  aim 

Peace  greets  us  ; — rambling  on  without  an 
We  mark  majestic  herds  of  cattle  free 
To  ruminate  %  couched  on  the  grassy  lea, 
And  hear  far-off  the  mellow  horn  proclaim 
The  season's  harmless   pastime.       Ruder 

sound 
Stirs  not ;  enrapt  I  gazewithstrangedelight, 
While  consciousnesses,  not  to  be  disowned, 
Here  only  serve  a  feeling  to  invite 
That  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  calmer  height, 
And  makes  the  rural  stillness  more  pro- 
found. 


DESULTORY    STANZAS, 

UPON  RECEIVING  THE  PRECEDING  SHEETS 

FROM  THE   PRESS. 

Is  then  the  final  page  before  me  spread, 
Nor  further  outlet  left  to  mind  or  heart  ? 
Presumptuous  book !    too  forward   to  be 

read — 
How  can  I  give  thee  licence  to  depart  ? 
One  tribute  more  ;— unbidden  feelings  start 
Forth  from  their  coverts — slighted  objects 

rise — 
My  spirit  is  the  scene  of  such  wild  art 


Honour,"  a  column — which  was  not  completed 
at  the  time  we  were  there. 

X  This  is  a  most  grateful  sight  for  an  English- 
man returning  to  his  native  land.  Everywhere 
one  misses,  in  the  cultivated  grounds  abroad,  the 
animating  and  soothing  accompaniment  of  ani- 
mal* ranging  and  selecting  their  own  food  at  will 


204 


TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


As  on  Parnassus  rules,  when  lightning  flies, 
Visibly  leading  on  the  thunder's  harmonies. 

All  that  I  saw  returns  upon  my  view, 
All  that  I  heard  comes  back  upon  my  ear, 
All  that  I  felt  this  moment  doth  renew  ; 
And  where  the  foot  with  no  unmanly  fear 
Recoiled — and  wings  alone  could  travel — 

there 
I  move  at  ease,  and  meet  contending  themes 
That  press  upon  me,  crossing  the  career 
Of  recollections  vivid  as  the  dreams 
Of  midnight,  — cities — plains — forests — and 

mighty  streams. 

Where  mortal  never  breathed  I  dare  to  sit 
Among  the  interior  Alps,  gigantic  crew, 
Who  triumphed  o'erdiluvian  power  !— and 

yet 
What  are  they  but  a  wreck  and  residue, 
Whose  only  business  is  to  perish  ? — true 
To  which  sad  course,  these  wrinkled  sons 

of  time 
Labour  their  proper  greatness  to  subdue  ; 
Speaking  of  death  alone,  beneath  a  clime 
Where  life  and  rapture  flow  in  plenitude 

sublime. 

Fancy  hath  flung  for  me  an  airy  bridge 
Across  thy  long  deep  valley,  furious  Rhone  ! 
Arch  that  here  rests  upon  the  granite  ridge 
Of  Monte  Rosa — there  on  frailer  stone 
Of  secondary  birth — the  Jungfrau's  cone  ; 
And,  from  that  arch,  down-looking  on  the 

vale 
The  aspect  I  behold  of  every  zone  ; 
A  sea  of  foliage  tossing  with  the  gale, 
Blithe  autumn's  purple  crown,  and  winter's 

icy  mail  ! 

Far  as  St.  Maurice,  from  yon  eastern  forks,* 
Down  the  main  avenue  my  sight  can  range  : 
And  all  its  branchy  vales,  and  all  that  lurks 
Within  them,  church,  and  town,  and  huts 

and  grange, 
For  my  enjoyment  meet  in  vision  strange  ; 
Snows — torrents  ; — to  the  region's  utmost 

bound, 
Life,  death,  in  amicable  interchange — 
But  list  !  the  avalanche — the  hush  profound 
That  follows,    yet   more  awful   than   that 

awful  sound  ! 


_*  Les  Fourches,  the  point  at  which  the  two 
cnains  of  mountains  part,  that  inclose  the  Va- 
iais,  which  terminates  at  St.  Maurice. 


Is  not  the  chamois  suited  to  his  place  ? 

The  eagle  worthy  of  her  ancestry  ? 

Let  empires  fall ;  but  ne*er  shall  ye  dis- 
grace 

Your  noble  birthright,  ye  that  occupy 

Your  council-seats  beneath  the  open  sky, 

On  Sarnen's  Mount, f  there  judge  if  fit  and 
right, 

In  simple  democratic  majesty  : 

Soft  breezes  fanning  your  rough  brows — 
the  might  [sight ! 

And  purity  of  nature  spread  before  your 

From  this  appropriate  court,  renowned 
Lucerne  [cheers 

Calls  me  to  pace  her  honoured  bridge!  that 

The  patriot's  heart  with  pictures  rude  and 
stern, 

An  uncouth  chronicle  of  glorious  years. 

Like  portraiture,  from  loftier  source,  en- 
dears 

That  work  of  kindred  frame,  which  spans 
the  lake 

Just  at  the  point  of  issue,  where  it  fears 

The  form  and  motion  of  a  stream  to  take  ; 

Where  it  begins  to  stir,  yet  voiceless  as  a 
snake. 

Volumes  of  sound,  from  the  cathedral  rolled, 
This  long-roofed  vista  penetrate— but  see, 


t  Sarnen,  one  of  the  two  capitals  of  the  Can- 
ton of  Underwalden ;  the  spot  here  alluded  to 
is  close  to  the  town,  and  is  called  the  Landen- 
berg,  from  the  tyrant  of  that  name,  whose  cha- 
teau formerly  stood  there.  On  the  ist  of  Janu- 
ary, 1308,  the  great  day  which  the  confederated 
heroes  had  chosen  for  the  deliverance  of  their 
country,  all  the  castles  of  the  governors  were 
taken  by  force  or  stratagem  :  and  the  tyrants 
themselves  conducted,  with  their  creatures,  to 
the  frontiers,  after  having  witnessed  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  strongholds.  From  that  time  the 
Landenberg  has  been  the  place  where  the  legis- 
lators of  this  division  of  the  Canton  assemble. 
The  site,  which  is  well  described  by  Ebel,  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Switzerland. 

{  The  bridges  of  Lucerne  are  roofed,  and 
open  at  the  sides,  so  that  the  passenger  has,  at 
the  same  time  the  benefit  of  shade,  and  a  view 
of  the  magnificent  country.  The  pictures  are 
attached  to  the  rafters  :  those  from  Scripture 
history  on  the  cathedral-bridge,  amount,  accor- 
ding to  my  notes  to  240.  Subjects  from  the  Old 
Testament  face  the  passenger  as  he  goes  towards 
the  cathedral,  and  those  from  the  New  as  he  re- 
turns. The  pictures  on  these  bridges,  as  well 
as  those  in  most  other  parts  of  Switzerland,  are 
not  to  be  spoken  of  as  works  of  art  ;  but  they 
are  instruments  admirably  answering  the  purpose 
for  which  they  were  designed. 


mini  ON  TTTE  CONTINENT. 


205 


One  after  one,  its  tablets,  that  unfold 
The  whole  design  of  Scripture  history  ; 
from  the  first  tasting  of  the  fatal  tree, 
Till  the  bright  star  appeared  in  eastern 

skies, 
Announcing  Onf.  was  born  mankind  to  free; 
His  acts,  his  wrongs,  his  final  sacrifice; 
Lessons  for  every  heart,  a  Bible  for  all  eyes. 

Our  pride  misleads,  our  timid  likings  kill. 
Long  may  these  homely  works  devised  of 

old, 
These  simple  efforts  of  Helvetian  skill, 
Aid,  with  congenial  influence,  to  uphold 
The  state, — the  country's  destiny  to  mould  ; 
Turning,  for  them  who  pass,  the  common 

dust 
Of  servile  opportunity  to  gold  ; 
Filling  the  soul  with  sentiments  august— 
The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  holy,  and  the 

just  ! 

No  more  ; — time  halts  not  in  his  noiseless 

march —  [flood  ; 

Nor  turns,  nor  winds,  as  doth   the  liquid 
Life  slips  from  underneath  us,  like  that  arch 
Of  airy  workmanship  whereon  we  stood, 
Earth    stretched    below,    heaven    in    our 

neighbourhood. 
Go  forth,  my  little  book  !  pursue  thy  way  ; 
Go  forth,  and  please  the  gentle  and  the 

good  ; 
Nor  be  a  whisper  stifled,  if  it  say 
That  treasures,  yet  untouched,  may  grace 

some  future  lay. 


TO   ENTERPRISE.* 

Keep  for  the  young  the  impassioned  smile 
Shed  from  thy  countenance,  as  I  see  thee 

stand 
High  on  a  chalky  cliff  of  Britain's  Isle, 
A  slender  volume  grasping  in  thy  hand — 
(Perchance  the  pages  that  relate 
The  various  turns  of  Crusoe's  fate). 
Ah  !  spare  the  exulting  smile, 
And  drop  thy  pointing  finger  bright 
As  the  first  flash  of  beacon-light  ; 
But  neither  veil  thy  head  in  shadows  dim, 
Nor  turn  thy  face  away 
From  one  who,  in  the  evening  of  his  day, 
To  thee  would  offer  no  presumptuous  hymn  ! 

*  This  poem  having  risen  out  of  the  "  Italian 
Itinerant."  etc.,  (page  197),  it  is  here  annexed. 


Bold  spirit  !  who  art  free  to  rove 

Among  the  starry  courts  of  Jove, 

And  oft  in  splendour  dost  appear 

Embodied  to  poetic  eyes, 

While  traversing  this  nether  sphere, 

Where  mortals  call  thee  Enterprise. 

Daughter  of  Hope  !  her  favourite  child 

Whom  she  to  young  Ambition  bore, 

When  hunter's  arrow  first  defiled 

The  grove,  and  stained  the  turf  with  gore  ; 

Thee  winged  Fancy  took,  and  nursed 

On  broad  Euphrates'  palmy  shore, 

Or  where  the  mightier  waters  burst 

From  caves  of  Indian  mountains  hoar  ! 

She  wrapped  thee  in  a  panther's  skin  ; 

And  thou,  whose  earliest  thoughts  held  des.r 

Allurements  that  were  edged  with  fear, 

(The  food  that  pleased  thee  best,  to  win) 

From  rocky  fortress  in  mid  air 

The  flame-eyed  eagle  oft  wouldst  scare 

With  infant  shout, — as  often  sweep, 

Paired  with  the  ostrich,  o'er  the  plain  ; 

And,  tired  with  sport,  wouldst  sink  asleep 

Upon  the  couchant  lion's  mane  ! 

With  rolling  years  thy  strength  increased  ; 

And,  far  beyond  thy  native  East, 

To  thee,  by  varying  titles  known, 

As  variously  thy  power  was  shown, 

Did  incense-bearing  altars  rise, 

Which  caught  the  blaze  of  sacrifice, 

From  suppliants  panting  for  the  skies  ! 

What  though  this  ancient  earth  be  trod 
No  more  by  step  of  demi-god, 
Mounting  from  glorious  deed  to  deed 
As  thou  from  clime  to  clime  didst  lead, 
Yet  still,  the  bosom  beating  high, 
And  the  hushed  farewell  of  an  eye 
Where  no  procrastinating  gaze 
A  last  infirmity  betrays, 
Prove  that  thy  heaven-descended  sway 
Shall  ne'er  submit  to  cold  decay. 
By  thy  divinity  impelled, 
The  stripling  seeks  the  tented  field  ; 
The  aspiring  virgin  kneels  ;  and,  pale 
With  awe,  receives  the  hallowed  veil, 
A  soft  and  tender  heroine 
Vowed  to  severer  discipline  ; 
Inflamed  by  thee,  the  blooming  boy 
Makes  of  the  whistling  shrouds  a  toy, 
And  of  the  ocean's  dismal  breast 
A  playground  and  a  couch  of  rest ; 
Thou  to  his  dangers  dost  enchain, 
'Mid  the  blank  world  of  snow  and  ice, 
The  chamois-chaser,  awed  in  vain 
By  chasm  or  dizzy  precipice  ; 
And  hast  thou  not  with  triumph  seen 
How  soaring  mortals  glide  serene 


206 


TOUS  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


From  cloud  lo  cloud,  and  brave  the  light 
IVith  bolder  than  Icarian  flight? 
Or,  in  their  bells  of  crystal  dive 
Where  winds  and  waters  cease  to  strive, 
For  no  unholy  visitings, 
Among  the  monsters  of  the  deep, 
And  all  the  sad  and  precious  things 
Which  there  in  ghastly  silence  sleep  ; 
Within  our  fearless  reach  are  placed 
The  secrets  of  the  burning  waste, — 
Egyptian  tombs  unlock  their  dead, 
Nile  trembles  at  his  fountain  head  ; 
Thou  speak 'st — and  lo  !  the  polar  seas 
Unbosom  their  last  mysteries. 
But   oh  !  what   transports,    what   sublime 
reward,  [prepare 

Won  from  the  world  of  mind,   dost  thou 
For  philosophic  sage — or  high-souled  bard 
Who,    for    thy   service   trained  in   lonely 
woods,  [air, 

Hath  fed  on  pageants  floating  through  the 
Or  calentured  in  depth  of  limpid  floods  ; 
Nor    grieves — though     doomed,    through 

silent  night,  to  bear 
The  domination  of  his  glorious  themes, 
Or  struggle  in  the  net- work  of  thy  dreams! 

If  there  be  movements  in  the  patriot's  soul, 
From  source  still  deeper,    and   of  higher 

worth,  [control, 

'Tis    thine    the    quickening     impulse     to 
And  in  due  season  send  the  mandate  forth  ; 
Thy  call  an  abject  nation  can  restore, 
When  but  a  single  mind  resolves  to  crouch 

no  more. 

Dread  minister  of  wrath  ! 

Who    to  their  destined   punishment   dost 

urge  [hardened  heart ! 

The  Pharaohs  of  the  earth,   the  men   of 
Not  unassisted  by  the  flattering  stars, 
Thou  strew'st  temptation  o'er  the  path 
When  they  in  pomp  depart, 
With  trampling  horses  and  refulgent  cars — 
Soon  to  be  swallowed  by  the  briny  surge  ; 
Or  cast,  for  lingering  death,   on  unknown 

strands  ; 
Or  stifled  under  weight  ol  desert  sands — 
An  army  now,  and  now  a  living  hill 
Heaving  with  convulsive  throes 


It  quivers — and  is  still  ; 

Or  to  forget  their  madness  and  their  woes, 

Wrapt  in  a  winding-sheet  of  spotless  snowsi 

Back  flows  the  willing  current  of  my  song : 

If  to  provoke  such  doom  the  impious  dare. 

Why  should  it  daunt  a  blameless  prayer  ? 

Bold  goddess  !  range  our  youth  among  ; 

Nor  let  thy  genuine  impulse  fail  to  beat 

In  hearts  no  longer  young  ; 

Still  may  a  veteran  few  have  pride 

In  thoughts  whose  sternness  makes  them 

sweet  ; 
In  fixed  resolves  by  reason  justified  ; 
That  to  their  object  cleave  like  sleet 
Whitening  a  pine-tree's  northern  side, 
While  fields  are  naked  far  and  wide. 

But,  if  such  homage  thou  disdain 

As  doth  with  mellowing  years  agree, 

One  rarely  absent  from  thy  train 

More  humble  favours  may  obtain 

For  thy  contented  votary. 

She,  who  incites  the  frolic  lambs 

In  presence  of  their  heedless  dams, 

And  to  the  solitary  fawn 

Vouchsafes  her  lessons — bounteous  nymph 

That  wakes  thebreeze— the  sparkling  lymph 

Doth  hurry  to  the  lawn  ; 

She,  who  inspires  that  strain  of  joyanceholy 

Which    the    sweet    bird,    misnamed    the 

melancholy  [for  me ; 

Pours  forth  in  shady  groves,   shall  plead 
And  vernal  mornings  opening  bright 
With  views  of  undefined  delight, 
And  cheerful  songs,  and  suns  that  shine 
On  busy  days,    with    thankful   nights,  bC 

mine. 

But  thou,  O  goddess  !  in  thy  favourite  isle 

(Freedom's  impregnable  redoubt, 

The  wide  earth's  store-house  fenced  about 

With  breakers  roaring  to  the  gales 

That  stretch  a  thousand  thousand  sails) 

Quicken  the  slothful,  and  exalt  the  vile  ! 

Thy  impulse  is  thy  life  of  fame  ; 

Glad  hope  would  almost  cease  to  be 

If  torn  from  thy  society  ; 

And  love,  when  worthiest  of  the  name, 

Is  proud  to  walk  the  earth  with  thee  ! 


207 


>•■  celesta sti ral  ^hetcbes. 


A  verse  may  catch  a  wandering  soul,  that  flies 
Profounder  tracts,  and  by  a  blest  surprise 
Convert  delight  into  a  sacrifice." 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


During  the  month  of  December,  1820,  I  ac- 
companied a  much  loved  and  honoured  friend  in 
a  walk  through  different  parts  of  his  estate, 
with  a  view  to  fix  upon  the  site  of  a  new  church 
which  he  intended  to  erect.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  mornings  of  a  mild  season, — our 
feelings  were  in  harmony  with  the  cherishing 
influences  of  the  scene  :  and,  such  being  our 
purpose,  we  were  naturally  led  to  look  back  upon 
past  events  with  wonder  and  gratitude,  and  on 
the  future  with  hope.  Not  long  afterwards  some 
of  the  sonnets  which  will  be  found  towards  the 
close  of  this  series  were  produced  as  a  private 
memorial  of  that  morning's  occupation. 

The  Catholic  question,  which  was  agitated  in 
Parliament  about  that  time,  kept  my  thoughts 
in  the  same  course,  and  it  struck  me  that  certain 


points  in  the  ecclesiastical  history  of  the  coun- 
try might  advantageously  be  presented  to  view 
in  verse.  Accordingly  I  took  up  the  subject, 
and  what  I  now  offer  to  the  reader  was  the  re- 
sult. 

When  the  work  was  far  advanced,  I  was  agree- 
ably surprised  to  find  that  my  friend,  Mr. 
Southey,  was  engaged,  with  similar  views,  in 
writing  a  concise  history  of  the  Church  in  Eng- 
land. If  our  productions,  thus  unintentionally 
coinciding,  shall  be  found  to  illustrate  each 
other,  it  will  prove  a  high  gratification  to  me, 
which  I  am  sure  my  friend  will  participate. 

W.  WORDSWORTH 

Rydal  Mount,  January  24,  1822. 


PART    I. 

FROM  THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  CHRISTIANITY  INTO  BRITAIN, 
TO  THE  CONSUMMATION  OF  THE  PAPAL  DOMINION. 


INTRODUCTION. 

I  WHO  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 
Cerulean     Duddon     from     his    cloud-fed 

spring, 
And  loved  with  spirit  ruled  by  his  to  sing 
Of     mountain-quiet    and    boon     nature's 

grace  ; 
T,  who  essayed  the  nobler  stream  to  trace 
Of  liberty,  and  smote  the  plausive  string 
Till  the  checked  torrent,  proudly  triumphing, 
Won  for  herself  a  lasting  resting-place  : 
Now   seek  upon  the  heights  of  time  the 

source 


*  For  the  convenience  of  passing  from  one 
point  of  the  subject  to  another  without  shocks 
of  abruptness,  this  work  has  taken  the  shape  of 
a  series  of  sonnets  ;  but  the  reader,  it  is  hoped, 
will  find  that  the  pictures  are  often  so  closely 
connected  as  to  have  the  effect  of  a  poem  in  a 
form  of  stanza,  to  which  there  is  no  objection 
but  one  that  bears  on  the  poet  only— its  diffi- 
culty- 


Of  a  Holy  River,  on  whose  banks  are  found 
Sweet  pastoral   flowers,    and   laurels   that 

have  crowned  [force  ; 

Full  oft   the  unworthy   brow    of   lawless 
Where,  for  the  delight  of  him  who  tracks 

its  course, 
Immortal  amaranth  and  palms  abound. 


CONJECTURES. 

If  there  be  prophets  on  whose  spirits  rest 
Past  things,  revealed  like  future,  they  ca» 

tell 
What  powers,  presiding  o'er  the  sacred  well 
Of  Christian  faith,  this  savage  island  blessed 
With  its  first  bounty.     Wandering  through 

the  west, 
Did  holy  Pault  a  while  in  Britain  dwell. 


t  Stillingfleet   adduces    many    arguments  in 
support  of  this  opinion,  but  they  are   unconvin- 


208 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


And  call  the  fountain  forth  by  miracle, 
And  with  dread  signs  the  nascent  stream 

invest  ?  [prison  doors 

Or  he,  whose  bonds  dropped  off,  whose 
Flew  open,  by  an  angel's  voice  unbarred  ? 
Or  some  of  humbler  name,  to  these  wild 

shores  [woe 

Storm-driven,  who,  having  seen  the  cup  of 
Pass  from  their  master,  sojourned  here  ta 

guard  [flow  ? 

The  precious  current  they  had  taught  to 


TREPIDATION   OF  THE   DRUIDS. 

Screams  round  the  arch-druid's  brow  the 

seamew* — white  [rmg 

As  Menai's  foam  ;  and  towards  the  mystic 
Where  augurs  stand,  the  future  questioning, 
Slowly  the  cormorant  aims  her  heavy  flight, 
Portending  ruin  to  each  baleful  rite, 
That,  in  the  lapse  of  ages  hath  crept  o'er 
Diluvian  truths,  and  patriarchal  lore. 
Haughty    the     bard  ; — can     these     meek 

doctrines  blight 
His  transports  ?  wither  his  heroic  strains  ? 
But  all  shall  be  fulfilled  ; — the  Julian  spear 
A   way   first   opened  :   and,    with   Roman 

chains, 
The  tidings  come  of  Jesus  crucified  ; 
They  come — they  spread — the   weak,    the 

suffering,  hear  ; 
Receive  the  faith,  and  in  the  hope  abide. 


DRUIDICAL    EXCOMMUNICATION. 

Mercy  and  love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road, 
Thou  wretched  outcast,  from  the  gift  of  fire 
And  food  cut  off  by  sacerdotal  ire, 
From  every  sympathy  that  man  bestowed! 
Yet  shall  it  claim  our  reverence,  that  to  God, 
Ancient  of  days!  that  to  the  eternal  Sire 
These  jealous  ministers  of  law  aspire, 
As  to  the  one  sole  fount  whence  wisdom 

flowed, 
Justice  and  order.     Tremblingly  escaped, 
As  if  with  prescience  of  the  coming  storm, 


cing.  The  latter  part  of  this  sonnet  refers  to  a 
favourite  notion  of  Catholic  writers,  that  Joseph 
of  Anmathea  and  his  companions  brought 
Christianity  into  Britain,  and  built  a  rude  church 
at  Glastonbury  ;  alluded  to  hereafter,  in  a  pas- 
sage upon  the  dissolution  of  monasteries. 

*  This  water-fowl  was,  among  the  Druids,  an 
emblem  of  those  traditions  connected  with  the 
deluge  that  made  an  important  part  of  their  mys- 
teries.    The  cormorant  was  a  bird  of  bad  omen. 


That  intimation  when  the  stars  were 
shaped;  [truth 

And  still,  'mid  yon  tljick  woods,  the  primal 

Glimmers  through  many  a  superstitious 
form 

That  fills  the  soul  with  unavailing  ruth. 


UNCERTAINTY. 

Darkness  surrounds  us;  seeking,  we  are 
lost  [coves, 

On    Snowdon's    wilds,    amid    Brigantian 
Or  where  the  solitary  shepherd  roves 
Along  the  plain  of  Sarum,  by  the  ghost 
Of  time  and  shadows  of  tradition,  crost; 
And  where  the  boatman  of  the  Western 
isles  [piles 

Slackens  his  course — to  mark  those  holy 
Which  yet  survive  on  bleak  Iona's  coast. 
Nor  these,  nor  monuments  of  eldest  fame 
Nor  Taliesin's  unforgotten  lays, 
Nor  characters  of  Greek  or  Roman  fame, 
To  an  unquestionable  source  have  led ; 
Enough — if  eyes  that  sought  the  fountain- 
head, 
In  vain,  upon  the  growing  rill  may  gaze. 


PERSECUTION. 

Lament  !  for  Diocletian's  fiery  sword 
Works  busy  as  the  lightning;  but  instinct 
With   malice   ne'er    to    deadliest   weapon 

linked, 
Which  God's  ethereal  storehouses  afford: 
Against  the  followers  of  the  incarnate  Lord 
It  rages; — some  are  smitten  in  the  field — 
Some  pierced  beneath  the  ineffectual  shield 
Of  sacred  home; — with  pomp  are  others 

gored 
And  dreadful  respite.  Thus  was  Alban  tried, 
England's  first  martyr,  whom  no  threats 

could  shake; 
Self-offered  victim,  for  his  friend  he  died, 
And   for   the   faith — nor  shall    his    name 

forsake  [risef 

That  hill,  whose  flowery  platform  seems  to 
By  nature  decked  for  holiest  sacrifice. 


t  This  hill  at  St.  Alban's  must  have  been  an 
object  of  great  interest  to  the  imagination  of  the 
venerable  Eede,  who  thus  describes  it  with  a 
delicate  feeling  delightful  to  meet  with  in  that 
rude  age,  traces  of  which  are  frequent  in  his 
works  : — "  Varus  herbarum  floribus  depictus  im6 
usquequaque  vestitus,  in  quo  nihil  repente  ar- 
duum,   nihil  pra;ceps,   nihil    abruptum,    quern 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


209 


RECOVER?. 

As,  when  a  storm  hath  ceased,  the  birds 

regain 
Their  cheerfulness,  and  busily  rctrim 
Their  nests,  or  chant  a  gratulating  hymn 
To  the  blue  ether  and  bespangled  plain; 
Even  so,  in  many  a  reconstructed  fane, 
Have  the  survivors  of  this  storm  renewed 
Their  holy  rites  with  vocal  gratitude: 
And  solemn  ceremonial  they  ordain 
To  celebrate  their  great  deliverance; 
Most  feelingly  instructed  'mid  their  fear, 
That  persecution,  blind  with  rage  extreme, 
May  not  the  less,  through  Heaven's  mild 

countenance,  [cheer; 

Even   in  her  own  despite,  both  feed  and 
For  all  things  are  less  dreadful  than  they 

seem. 


TF.MPTATIONS   FROM    ROMAN   REFINE- 
MENTS. 

Watch,  and  be  firm!  for  soul-subduing 

vice, 
Heart-killing  luxury,  on  your  steps  await. 
Fair  houses,  baths,  and  banquets  delicate 
And  temples  flashing,  bright  as  polar  ice, 
Their  radiance  through  the  woods,  may  yet 

suffice 
To  sap  your  hardy  virtue,  and  abate 
Your  love  of  Him  upon  whose  forehead  sate 
The   crown   of  thorns  ;    whose  life-blood 

flowed,  the  price  [arts 

Of  your  redemption.     Shun  the  insidious 
That   Rome  provides,  less  dreading  from 

her  frown  [gown, 

Than   from   her  wily  praise,  her  peaceful 
Language     and     letters; — these,    though 

fondly  viewed 
As  humanizing  graces,  are  but  parts 
And  instruments  of  deadliest  servitude! 


DISSENSIONS. 

That  heresies  should  strike  (if  truth  be 
scanned  [deep 

Presumptuously)  their  roots  both  wide  and 
Is  natural  as  dreams  to  feverish  sleep. 
Lo!  Discord  at  the  altar  dares  to  stand 
Uplifting   toward   high    heaven   her  fiery 
brand, 


lateribus  longe  lateque  deductum  in  modum 
Jequoris  natura  complanat,  dignum  videlicet  cum 
pro  insita  sibi  specie  venustatis  jam  olim  reddens, 
qui  beati  marryris  cruoredicaretur." 


A  cherished  priestess  of  the  new-baptized i 
But  chastisement  shall  follow  peace  despised. 
The  I'ictish  cloud  darkens  the  enervate  land 
By  Rome  abandoned ,    vain  are  suppliant 

cries,  [farewell. 

And  prayers  that  would  undo  her  forced 
For  she  returns  not. — Awed  by  her  own 

knell, 
She  casts  he  Britons  upon  strange  allies, 
Soon  to  become  more  dreaded  enemies 
Than  heartless  misery  called  them  to  repeV 


STRUGGLE    OF    THE   BRITONS   AGAINST 
THE    BARBARIANS. 

Rise  !—  they  have  risen :  of  brave  Aneurin 

ask  [friends: 

How  they  have  scourged  old  foes,  perfidious 
The  spirit  of  Caractacus  defends 
The  patriots,  animates  theirglorious  task; — 
Amazement  runs  before  the  towering  casque 
Of  Arthur,  bearing  through  the  stormy  field 
The  Virgin   sculptured   on   his   Christian 

shield: — 
Stretched  in  the  sunny  light  of  victory  bask 
The  hosts  that  followed  Urien  as  he  strode 
O'er  heaps  of  slain; — from  Cambrian  wood 

and  moss 
Druids  descend,  auxiliars  of  the  Cross; 
Bards,  nursed  on  blue   Plinlimmon's   still 

abode,  [swords, 

Rush   on   the    fight,    to   harps  preferring 
And  everlasting  deeds  to  burning  words  ! 


SAXON   CONQUEST. 

Xor  wants  the  cause  the  panic-striking  aid 
Of  hallelujahs*  tost  from  hill  to  hill — 
For  instant  victory.    But  Heaven's  high  will 
Permits  a  second  and  a  darker  shade 
Of  pagan  light.     Afflicted  and  dismayed, 
The  relics  of  the  sword  flee  to  the  moun- 
tains: [like  fountains; 
O  wretched  land  !  whose  tears  have  flowed 
Whose  arts  and  honours  in  the  dust  are  laid, 
By  men  yet  scarcely  conscious  of  a  care 
For  other  monuments  than  those  of  earth  ;t 
Who,  as  the  fields  and  woods  have  given 
them  birth, 


*  Alluding  to  the  victory  gained  under  Ger- 
manus. — See  Bede. 

t  The  last  six  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  chiefly 
from  the  prose  of  Daniel  ;  and  here  I  will  state 
(though  to  the  readers  whom  this  poem  will 
chiefly  interest  it  is  unnecessary),  that  iny  obli- 


210 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


Will  build  their  savage  fortunes  only  there; 
Content,  if  foss,  and  barrow,  and  the  girth 
Of  long-drawn  rampart,  witness  what  they 
were. 


MONASTERY   OF  OLD   BANGOR.* 

The  oppression  of  the  tumult — wrath  and 

scorn — 
The  tribulation — and  the  gleaming  blades — ■ 
Such  is  the  impetuous  spirit  that  pervades 
The  song  of  Taliesin;t — Ours  shall  mourn 
The  unarmed  host  who  by  their  prayers 
would  turn  [the  store 

The  sword  from  Bangor's  walls,  and  guard 
Of  aboriginal  and  Roman  lore,  [burn 

And  Christian  monuments  that  now  must 
To  senseless  ashes.     Mark !  how  all  things 
swerve  [dream ; 

From  their  known  course,  or  vanish  like  a 
Another  language  spreads  from  coast  to 

coast; 
Only  perchance  some  melancholy  stream 
And  some  indignant  hills  old  names  pre- 
serve, [lost ! 
When  laws,  and  creeds,  and  people  all  are 


gations  to  other  prose  writers  are  frequent — ob- 
ligations which,  even  if  I  had  not  a  pleasure  in 
courting,  it  would  have  been  presumptuous  to 
shun,  in  treating  an  historical  subject.  I  must, 
however,  particularise  Fuller,  to  whom  I  am  in- 
debted in  the  sonnet  upon  Wicliffe,  and  in  other 
instances.  And  upon  the  Acquittal  of  the  Seven 
Bishops  I  have  done  little  more  than  versify  a 
lively  description  of  that  event  in  the  memoirs 
of  the  first  Lord  Lonsdale. 

*  "  Ethelforth  reached  the  convent  of  Bangor  ; 
he  perceived  the  monks,  twelve  hundred  in 
number,  offering  prayers  for  the  success  of  their 
countrymen  :  '  If  they  are  praying  against  us,' 
he  exclaimed,  '  they  are  fighting  against  us  ;' 
and  he  ordered  them  to  be  first  attacked  :  they 
were  destroyed  ;  and,  appalled  by  their  fate,  the 
courage  of  Broc  mail  wavered,  and  he  fled  from  the 
field  in  dismay.  Thus  abandoned  by  their  leader, 
his  army  soon  gave  way,  and  Ethelforth  ob- 
tained a  decisive  conquest.  Ancient  Bangor 
itself  soon  fell  into  his  hands,  and  was  demo- 
lished ;  the  noble  monastery  was  levelled  to  the 
ground;  its  library,  which  is  mentioned  as  a 
large  one,  the  collection  of  ages,  the  repository 
of  the  most  precious  monuments  of  the  ancient 
Britons,  was  consumed  ,  half-ruined  walls,  gates, 
and  rubbish,  were  all  that  remained  of  the 
magnificent  edifice."— See  Turner's  valuable  his- 
tory of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

The  account  Bede  gives  of  this  remarkable 
event,  suggests  a  most  striking  warning  against 
national  and  religious  prejudices. 

t  Taliesin  was  present  at  the  battle  which 
preceded  this  desolation. 


CASUAL    INCITEMENT. 

A  bright-haired  company  of  youthful 

slaves, 
Beautiful  strangers,  stand  within  the  pale 
Of  a  sad  market,  ranged  for  public  sale, 
Where  Tiber's  stream   the  immortal  city 

laves; 
Angli  by  name;  and  not  an  angel  waves 
His  wing  who  seemeth  lovelier  in  Heaven's 
Than  they  appear  to  holy  Gregory;       [eye 
Who,  having  learnt  that  name,  salvation 

craves  [sire, 

For  them,  and  for  their  land.     The  earnest 
His  questions  urging,  feels  in  slender  ties 
Of  chiming  sound  commanding  sympathies; 
De-irians — he   would    save    them    from 

God's  Ire; 
Subjects  of  Saxon  ^lla — they  shall  sing 
Glad  HALLElujahs  to  the  eternal  King! 


GLAD    TIDINGS. 

For  ever  hallowed  be  this  morning  fair, 
Blest  be  the  unconscious  shore  on  which  ye 

tread, 
And  blest  the  silver  cross,  which  ye,  instead 
Of  martial  banner,  in  procession  bear; 
The  cross  preceding  Him  who  floats  in  air, 
The  pictured  Saviour! — By  Augustin  led, 
They   come — and  onward   travel   without 

dread, 
Chanting  in  barbarous  ears  a  tuneful  prayer, 
Sung  for  themselves,  and  those  whom  they 

would  free!  [tuous  sea 

Rich  conquest  waits   them; — the   tempes- 
Of  ignorance,  that  ran  so  rough  and  high, 
And   heeded   not    the    voice    of   clashing 

swords,  [words, 

These  good  men  humble  by  a  few  bare 
And  calm  with  fear  of  God's  divinity. 


PAULINUS.J 

But,  to  remote  Northumbria's  royal  hall, 
Where  thoughtful  Edwin,   tutored  in  the 

school 
Of  sorrow  still  maintains  a  heathen  rule, 
Who  comes  with  functions  apostolical? 


X  The  person  of  Paulinus  is  thus  described  by 
Bede,  from  the  memory  of  an  eye-witness  :— 
"  Longae  statural,  paululum  incurvus,  nigro  ca- 
pillo,  facie  macilento,  naso  adunco,  pertenui, 
venerabilis  simul  et  terribilis  aspectu." 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


211 


Mark  him,  of  shoulders  curved,  and  stature 

tall. 
Black  hair,  and  vivid  eye,  and  meagre  cheek, 
His  prominent  features  like  an  eagle's  beak; 
A  man  whose  aspect  doth  at  once  appal, 
.And  strike  with  reverence.     The  monarch 

leans 
Towards  the  truth  this  delegate  propounds, 
Repeatedly  his  own  deep  mind  he  sounds 
With  careful  hesitation, — then  convenes 
A  synod  of  his  counsellors; — give  ear, 
And  what  a  pensive  sage  doth  utter,  hear! 


PERSUASION. 

"  Man's  life  is  like  a  sparrow,  *  mighty  king ! 
That,  stealing  in  while  by  the  fire  you  sit 
Housed  with  rejoicing  friends,  is  seen  to  flit 
Safe  from  the  storm,  in  comfort  tarrying. 
Here  did  it  enter — there,  on  hasty  wing 
Mies  out,  and  passes  on  from  cold  to  cold ; 
1  Sut  whence  it  came  we  know  not,  nor  behold 
Whither  it  goes.     Even  such  that  transient 

thing, 
The  human  soul ;  not  utterly  unknown 
While  in  the  body  lodged,  her  warm  abode; 
But  from  what  world  she  came,  what  woe 

or  weal  [shown  ; 

On  her  departure  waits,  no  tongue  hath 
This  mystery  if  the  stranger  can  reveal, 
His  be  a  welcome  cordially  bestowed  1" 


*  See  the  original  of  this  speech  in  Bede. — 
The  conversion  of  Edwin,  as  related  by  him  is 
highly  interesting — and  the  breaking  up  of  this 
council  accompanied  with  an  event  so  striking 
and  characteristic,  that  I  am  tempted  to  give  it 
at  length,  in  a  translation.  "  Who,  exclaimed 
the  king,  when  the  council  was  ended,  shall  first 
desecrate  the  altars  and  the  temples  ?  I,  an- 
swered the  chief  priest,  for  who  more  fit  than 
myself,  through  the  wisdom  which  the  true  God 
hath  given  me  to  destroy,  for  the  good  example 
of  others,  what  in  foolishness  I  worshipped? 
Immediately,  casting  away  vain  superstition, 
he  besought  the  king  to  grant  him,  what  the 
laws  did  not  allow  to  a  priest,  arms  and  a 
courser  ;  which  mounting,  and  furnished  with  a 
sword  and  lance,  he  proceeded  to  destroy  the 
idols.  The  crowd,  seeing  this,  thought  him 
mad — he,  however,  halted  not,  but  approaching 
he  profaned  the  temple,  casting  against  it  the 
lance  which  he  had  held  in  his  hand,  and, exulting 
in  acknowledgment  of  the  true  God,  he  ordered 
his  companions  to  pull  down  the  temple,  with 
all  its  inclosures.  The  place  is  shown  where 
those  idols  formerly  stood,  not  far  from  York,  at 
the  source  of  the  river  Derwent,  and  is  at  this 
day  called  Gormund  Gaham." 


CONVERSION. 

Prompt    transformation  works   the   novel 

lore  ; 
The  council  closed,  the  priest  in  full  career 
Rides  forth,  an  armed  man, and  hurlsaspear 
To  desecrate  the  fane  which  heretofore 
He   served    in    folly. — Woden    falls — and 

Thor 
Is  overturned  ;  the  mace,  in  battle  heaved 
(So   might    they   dream)    till   victory   was 

achieved, 
Drops,  and  the  god  himself  is  seen  no  more. 
Temple  and  altar  sink,  to  hide  their  shame 
Amid  oblivious  weeds.     "Oh,  come  to  me, 
Ye  heavy  laden  !"  such  the  inviting  voice 
Heard  near  fresh  streams,! — and  thousands, 

who  rejoice 
In  the  new  rite — the  pledge  of  sanctity, 
Shall,  by  regenerate  life,  the  promise  claim. 


Nor  scorn  the  aid  which  fancy  oft  doth  lend 
The  soul's  eternal  interests  to  promote  ; 
Death,  darkness,  danger,  are  our  natural  lot ; 
And  evil  spirits  may  our  walk  attend 
For  aught  the  wisest  know  or  comprehend: 
Then  be  good  spirits  free  to  breathe  a  note 
Of  elevation  ;  let  their  odours  float 
Around  these  converts  ;   and  their  glories 

blend, 
Outshining  nightly  tapers,  or  the  blaze 
Of  the  noon-day.     Nor  doubt  that  golden 

cords  [raise 

Of  good  works,  mingling  with  the  visions 
The  soul  to  purer  worlds  :  and  who  the  line 
Shall  draw,  the  limits  of  the  power  define, 
That  even  imperfect  faith  to  man  affords? 


PRIMITIVE   SAXON   CLERGY. \ 

How  beautiful  your  presence,  how  benign, 
Servants  of  God  !   who  not  a  thought  will 
share 


t  The  early  propagators  of  Christianity  were 
accustomed  to  preach  near  rivers  for  the  con- 
venience of  baptism. 

%  Having  spoken  of  the  zeal,  disinterestedness, 
and  temperance  of  the  clergy  of  those  times, 
Bede  thus  proceeds  : — "  Unde  et  in  magna  erat 
veneratione  tempore  illo  religioms  habitus,  itaut 
ubicunque  clericus  aliquis,  aut  monachus  ad- 
veniret,  gaudenter  ab  omnibus  tanquam  Del 
famulus  exciperetur.  Etiam  si  in  stinere  per 
gens  inveniretur,  accurrebant,   et  (leva  cervice 


212 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


With  the  vain  world,  who,  outwardly  as  bare 
As  winter  trees,  yield  no  fallacious  sign 
That  thefirn  soul  is  clothed  with  fruitdivine! 
Such  priest,  when  service  worthy  of  his  care 
Has  called  him  forth  to  breathe  the  common 

air. 
Alight  seem  a  saintly  image  from  its  shrine 
Descended  .-happy  are  the  eyes  that  meet 
The  apparition  ;  evil  thoughts  are  stayed 
\t   his  approach,   and   low-backed   necks 

entreat 
A  benediction  from  his  voice  or  hand  ; 
Whence  grace,    through  which  the  heart 

can  understand  ; 
And  vows, that  bind  the  will, in  silence  made. 


OTHER    INFLUENCES. 

Ah,  when  the  frame,  round  which  in  love 

we  clung, 
Is  chilled  by  death,  does  mutual  service  fail? 
Is  tender  pity  then  of  no  avail  ? 
Are  intercessions  of  the  fervent  tongue 
A  waste  of  hope? — From  this  sad  source 

have  sprung 
Rites  that  console  the  spirit,  under  grief 
Which  ill  can  brook  more  rational  relief: 
Hence  prayers  are  shaped  amiss,  and  dirges 

sung  [is  smooth 

For  those  whose  doom  is  fixed  !     The  way 
For   power  that  travels  with   the   human 

heart : 
Confession  ministers,  the  pang  to  soothe 
In  him  who  at  the  ghost  of  guilt  doth  start. 
Ye  holy  men,  so  earnest  in  your  care, 
Of  your  own  mighty  instruments  beware  ! 


SECLUSION. 

Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished — 

at  his  side 
A  bead-roll,  in  his  hand  a  clasped  book, 
Or  staff  more  harmless  than  a  shepherd's 

crook,  [to  hide 

The  war-worn  chieftain  quits  the  world — 
His  thin  autumnal  locks  where  monks  abide 
In  cloistered  privacy.  But  not  to  dwell 
In  soft  repose  he  comes.  Within  his  cell 
Round  the  decaying  trunk  of  human  pride, 
At  mom,  and  eve, and  midnight's  silent  hour, 
Do  penitential  cogitations  cling  : 


vel  manu  signari,  vel  ore  illius  se  bcnedici,  gau- 
debant.  Verbis  quoque  horum  exbortatoriis  di- 
ligenter  auditum  praebebant."— Lib.  iii.,  cap. 
26. 


1  ,ike  ivy,  round  some  ancient  elm,  they  twine 
In  grisly  folds  and  strictures  serpentine  ; 
Yet,   while   they  strangle   without   mercy, 

bring 
For  recompense  their  own  perennial  bower. 


CONTINUED. 

Methinks  that  to  some  vacant  hermitage 
.1/yfeet  would  rather  turn — to  somedry  nook 
Scooped  out  of  living  rock,  and  near  a  brook 
Hurled  down  a  mountain-cove  from  stage 

to  stage, 
Yet  tempering,  for  my  sight,  its  bustling  rage 
In  the  soft  heaven  of  a  translucent  pool ; 
Thence  creeping  under  forest  arches  cool, 
Fit  haunt  of  shapes  whose  glorious  equipage 
Would  elevate  mydreams.  A  beechen  bowl, 
A  maple  dish,  my  furniture  should  be  ; 
Crisp,  yellow  leaves  my  bed  ;  the  hooting 

owl  [fowl 

My  night-watch  :  nor  should  e'er  the  crested 
From  thorp  or  vill  his  matins  sound  for  me. 
Tired  of  the  world  and  all  its  industry. 


RErROOF. 

But  what  if  one,  through  grove  or  flowery 

mead, 
Indulging  thus  at  will  the  creeping  feet 
Of  a  voluptuous  indolence,  should  meet 
Thy  hovering  shade,  O  venerable  Bede  ! 
The  saint,  the  scholar,  from  a  circle  freed 
Of  toil  stupendous,  in  a  hallowed  seat 
Of  learning,  where  thou  heard "st  the  billows 

beat 
On  a  wild  coast,  rough  monitors  to  feed 
Perpetual  industry.     Sublime  recluse  ! 
The  recreant  soul,  that  dares  toshun  the  debt 
Imposed  on  human  kind,  must  first  forget 
Thy  diligence,  thy  unrelaxing  use 
Of  a  long  life  ;  and,  in  the  hour  ol  death, 
The  last  dear  service  of  thy  passing  breath  ?* 


SAXON   MONASTERIES,    AND  LIGHTS   AND 
SHADES   OF   THE   RELIGION. 

By   such   examples    moved    to    unbought 

pains 
The  people  work  like  congregated  bees  ; ' 


*  He  expired  dictating  the  last  words  of  a 
translation  of  St.  John's  Gospel. 

t  See  in  Turner's  History,  vol.  iii.,  p.  528, 
the  account  of  the  erection  of  Ramsey  monas- 
tery. Penances  were  removable  by  the  purfur- 
mances  of  acts  of  charity  and  benevolence 


ECCLESIA  S  TICAL  SKETCHES. 


213 


to  build  the  quiet  fortresses 
Where  piety,  as  they  believe,  obtains 
Front  heaven  a v'-v,'/-,// blessing;  timely  rains 
Or  needful  sunshine  ;  prosperous  enterprise, 
And  peace; and  equity.  Bold  faith  !  yet  rise 
The  sacred  structures  for  less  doubtful  gains. 
The  sensual  think  with  reverence  of  the 
palms  [grave; 

Which  the  chaste  votaries  seek,  beyond  the 
II  penance  be  redeemable,  thence  alms 
Flow  to  the  poor,  and  freedom  to  the  slave  ; 
And,  if  full  oft  the  sanetuary  save 
Lives  black  with  guilt,  ferocity  it  calms. 


MISSIONS   AND   TRAVELS. 

Not  sedentary  all  :  there  are  who  roam 
'I  o  scatter  seeds  of  life  on  barbarous  shores; 
Or  quit  with  zealous  step  their  knee-worn 

floors 
To  seek  the  general  mart  of  Christendom  ; 
Whence  they,  like  richly-laden  merchants, 

come 
To  their  beloved  cells  : — or  shall  we  say 
That,  like  the  red-cross  knight,  they  urge 

their  way, 
To  lead  in  memorable  triumph  home 
Truth — their  immortal  Una?     Babylon, 
Learned  and  wise,  hath  perished  utterly, 
Nor  leaves  her  speech  one  word  to  aid  the 

sigh  [are  gone 

That  would  lament  her  ; — Memphis,  Tyre, 
With  all  theirarts, — but  classic  lore  glides  on 
By  these  religious  saved  for  all  posterity. 


And  Christian    India,    through    her  wide- 
spread clime, 
In  sacred  converse  gifts  with  Alfred  shares 


Behold  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  gown, 
The  pious  Alfred,  king  to  justice  dear  ; 
Lord  of  the  harp  and  liberating  spear  ; 
Mirror  of  princes  !     Indigent  renown 
Might  range  the  starry  ether  for  a  crown 
Equal  to  his  deserts,  who,  like  the  year, 
I'ours  forth  his  bounty,  like  the  day  doth 

cheer,  [frown. 

And  awes  like  night  with  mercy-tempered 
Ease  from  this  noble  miser  of  his  time 
No  moment  steals  ;  pain  narrows  not  his 

cares.*  [gem, 

Though  small  his  kingdom  as  a  spark  or 
Of  Alfred  boasts  remote  Jerusalem, 


*  Through    the  whole  of  his  life  Alfred   was 
subject  to  grievous  maladies. 


HIS   DESCENDANTS. 

<  'an  aught  survive  to  linger  in  the  veins 
Of  kindred  bodies— an  essential  power 
That  may  not  vanish  in  one  fatal  hour, 
And  wholly  cast  away  terrestrial  chains? 
The  race  of  Alfred  covets  glorious  pains 
When  dangers  threaten,  dangers  ever  new  ! 
Black  tern  pests  bursting,  blacker  still  in  view! 
But  manly  sovereignty  its  hold  retains ; 
The  root  sincere,  the  branches  bold  to  strive 
With  the  fierce  tempest,  while,  within  tile 

round 
Of  their  protection,  gentle  virtues  thrive  ; 
As  oft,  'mid  some  green  plot  of  open  ground, 
Wide  as  the  oak  extends  its  dewy  gloom, 
The  fostered  hyacinths  spread  their  purple 

bloom. 


INFLUENCE   ABUSED. 

Urged  by  ambition,  who  with  subtlest  skill 
Changes  her  means,  the  enthusiast  as  a  dupe 
Shall  soar,  and  as  a  hypocrite  can  stoop, 
And  turn  the  instruments  of  good  to  ill, 
Moulding  the  credulous  people  to  his  will. 
Such  Dunstan  :—  from  its  Benedictine  coop 
Issues  '.he  master  mind,  at  whose  fell  swoop 
The  chaste  affections  tremble  to  fulfil 
Their  purposes.     Behold,  pre-sigmfied, 
The  night  of  spiritual  sway!  his  thoughts, 

his  dreams, 
Do  in  the  supernatural  world  abide  : 
So  vaunt  a  throng  of  followers,  filled  w'ih 

pride 
In  shows  of  virtue  pushed  to  its  extremes, 
And  sorceries  of  talent  misapplied. 


DANISH   CONQUESTS. 

Woe  to  the  crown  that  doth  the  cowl  obey  !t 
Dissension  checks  the  arms  that  would  re- 
strain 
The  incessant  rovers  of  the  Northern  main 
And  widely  spreads  once  more  a  pagan  sway 
But  gospel-truth  is  potent  to  allay 


t  The  violent  measures  carried  on  under  thfi 
influence  of  Dunstati  for  strengthening  the 
Benedictine  order,  were  a  leading  cause  of  the 
second  series  of   Danish   invasions. — See    Tur- 


2U 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


Fierceness  and  rage ;   and  soon  the  cruel 
Dane  [reign, 

Feels,  through  the  influence  of  her  gentle 
His  native  superstitions  melt  away. 
Thus,  often,  when  thick  gloom  the  east  o'er- 
shrouds,  [appear 

The  full-orbed  moon,  slow-climbing,  doth 
Silently  to  consume  the  heavy  clouds  ; 
How  no  one  can  resolve  ;  but  every  eye 
Around  her  sees,  while  air  is  hushed,  a  clear 
And  widening  circuit  of  ethereal  skv 


A  pleasant  music  floats  along  the  mere, 
From  monks  in  Ely  chanting  service  high, 
Whileas  Canute  the  king  is  rowing  by  : 
"My  oarsmen,"  quoth  the  mighty  king, 

"  draw  near,  [hear  !" 

That  we  the  sweet  song  of  the  monks  may 
He   listens,     (all    past  conquests    and   all 

schemes 
Of  future  vanishing  like  empty  dreams,) 
Heart-touched,  and  haply  not  without  a  tear. 
The  royal  minstrel,  ere  the  choir  is  still, 
While  his  free  barge  skims  the  smooth  flood 

along, 
Gives  to  that  rapture  an  accordant  rhyme.* 
O  suffering  earth  !  be  thankful ;   sternest 

clime 
And  rudest  age  are  subject  to  the  thrill 
Of  heaven-descended  piety  and  song. 


THE   NORMAN   CONQUEST. 

The  woman-hearted  confessor  prepares 

The  evanescence  of  the  Saxon  line. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  tolling   curfew  !   the  stars 

shine,  [cares 

<3ut  of  the  lights  that   cherish  household 
And  festive  gladness,  burns  not  one  that 

dares 
To  twinkle  after  that  dull  stroke  of  thine, 
Emblem  and  instrument,  from  Thames  to 

Tyne,  [snares ! 

Of  force  that  daunts,  and  cunning  that  en- 
Yet  as  the  terrors  of  the  lordly  bell, 
That  quench,   from  hut  to  palace,  lamps 

and  fires, 
Touch  not  the  tapers  of  the  sacred  quires, 
Even  so  a  thraldom  studious  to  expel 
Old  laws  and  ancient  customs  to  derange, 
Brings  to  religion  no  injurious  change. 


Which  is  still  extant. 


THE  COUNCIL  OF   CLERMON'l. 

"And  shall,"  the  Pontiff  asks,  "profane 

ness  flow 
From  Nazareth  —source  of  Christian  piety, 
From  Bethlehem,  from  themounts  of  agony 
And  glorified  ascension  ?    Warriors  go, 
With  prayers  and  blessings  we  your  path 

will  sow  ; 
Like  Moses  hold  our  hands  erect,  till  ye 
Have  chased  far  off  by  righteous  victory 
These  sons  cf  Amalek,  or  laid  them  low  !" 
"  God  willeth  it,"  the  whole  assembly  cry ; 
Shout  which  the  enraptured  multitude  as- 
tounds !  [reply  :— 
The  Council-roof  and  Clermont's  towers 
' '  God  willeth  it,"  from  hill  to  hill  rebounds, 
And  in  awe-stricken  countries  far  and  nigh 
Through  "  nature's  hollow  arch,"  the  voice 
resounds,  t 


CRUSADES. 

The  turbaned  race  are  poured  in  thicken- 
ing swarms  [taine, 
Along  the  west ;  though  driven  from  Aqui- 
The   crescent   glitters   on   the    towers    of 

Spain ; 
And  soft  Italia  feels  renewed  alarms  ; 
The  scimitar,  that  yields  not  to  the  charms 
Of  ease,  the  narrow  Bosporus  will  disdain  : 
Nor  long  (that  crossed)  would  Grecian  hills 
detain  [arms. 

Their  tents,  and  check  the  current  of  their 
Then  blame  not  those  who,  by  the  mightiest 

lever 
Known  to  the  moral  world,  imagination, 
Upheave  (so  seems  it)    from   her  natural 
station  [(was  never 

All   Christendom  : — they    sweep    along — 
So  huge  a  host  !) — to  tear  from  the  un- 
believer [vation. 
The  precious    tomb,    their  haven   of  sal- 


RICHARD   I. 


Redoubted  king,  of  courage  leonine, 
I  mark  thee,  Richard  !  urgent  to  equip 
Thy  warlike  person  with  the  staff  and  scrip  ; 
I  watch  thee  sailing  o'er  the  midland  brine  ; 
In  conquered  Cyprus  see  thy  bride  decline 


t  The  decision  of  this  council  was  believed  to 
be  instantly  known  in  remote  parts  of  Europe. 


ECCLESTA 8 TTC 1 1  SKETCHES. 


!15 


Her  blushing  cheek,  love-vows  upon  her 
lip.  [ship, 

And  see  love-emblems  streaming  from  thy 
As  thence  she  holds  her  way  to  Palestine. 
My  song  (a  fearless  homager)  would  attend 
Thy  thundering  battle-axe  as  it  cleaves  the 

press 
Of  war,  but  duty  summons  her  away 
To  tell,  how  finding  in  the  rash  distress 
Ofthoseenthusiastpowers  a  constant  friend, 
Through  giddier  heights  hath  clomb  the 
papal  sway. 


AN  INTERDICT. 

Realms  quake  by  turns  :  proud  arbitress 
of  grace,  [the  power 

The  Church,  by  mandate  shadowing  forth 
She  arrogates  o'er  heaven's  eternal  door, 
Closes  the  gates  of  every  sacred  place, 
Straight  from  the  sun  and  tainted  airs  em- 
brace [morn 
All  sacred  things  are  covered  :  cheerful 
Grows  sad   as   night— no  seemly  garb  is 

worn, 
Nor  is  a  face  allowed  to  meet  a  face 
With  natural  smile  of  greeting.     Bells  are 

dumb: 
Ditches  are  graves — funeral  rites  denied  ; 
And  in  the  church-yard  he  must  take  his 
bride  [come 

Who  dares  be  wedded  !     Fancies  thickly 
Into  the  pensive  heart  ill-fortified, 
And  comfortless  despairs  the  soul  benumb. 


PAPAL  ABUSES. 

As  with  the  stream  our  voyage  we  pursue, 
The  gross  materials  of  this  world  present 
A  marvellous  study  of  wild  accident ; 
Uncouth  proximities  of  old  and  new  ; 
And  bold  transfigurations,   more  untrue 
(As  might  be  deemed)  to  disciplined  intent 
1  nan  aught  the  sky's  fantastic  element, 
When  most  fantastic,  offers  to  the  view. 
Saw  we  not  Henry  scourged  at  Becket's 

shrine  ?  [crown, 

Lo !  John  self-stripped  of  his  insignia  ; — 
Sceptre  and  mantle,   sword  and  ring,  laid 

down  [line 

At  a  proud  legate's  feet !  The  spears  that 
Baronial  halls,  the  opprobrious  insult  feel ; 
And  angry  ocean  roars  a  vain  appeal. 


SCENE   IN   VENICE. 


Black  demons  hovering  o'er  his  mitred 

head, 
To  Caesar's  successor  the  pontiff  spake  : 
"  Ere  I  absolve  thee,  stoop  !  that  on  thy 

T       V,ec,k    •  ,  [tread." 

Levelled  with  eartli  this  foot  of  mine  may 
Then,  he  who  to  the  altar  had  been  led, 
He,  whose  strong  arm  the  orient  could  not 

check, 
He,  who  had  held  the  soldan  at  his  beck, 
Stooped,  of  all  glory  disinherited, 
And  even  the  common  dignity  of  man  ! 
Amazement  strikes  the  crowd  ;— while  many 

turn 
Their  eyes  away  in  sorrow,  others  burn 
With  scorn,  invoking  a  vindictive  ban 
From  outraged  nature;  but  the  sense  of  m  '^st 
In  abject  sympathy  with  power  is  lost. 


PAPAL    DOMINION. 


Unless  to  Peter's  chair  the  viewless  wind 
Must  come  and  ask  permission  when  to 

blow,  [now 

What  further  empire  would  it  have?  for 
A  ghostly  domination,  unconfined 
As  that  by  dreaming  barclsto  love  assigned, 
Sits  there  in  sober  truth— to  raise  the  low, 
Perplex  the  wise,  the  strong  to  overthrow- 
Through  earth  and  heaven  to  bind  and  to 

unbind !  [—rebuff 

Resist— the  thunder  quails  thee  !—  crouch 
Shall  be  thy  recompense  !  from  land  to  land 
The  ancient  thrones  of  Christendom  are 
For  occupation  of  a  magic  wand,  [stuff 
And  'tis  the  pope  that  wields  it,— whether 

rough  [hand  ! 

Or  smooth  his  front,   our  world  is  in  his 


PART    II. 

TO  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE 

TROUBLES  IN  THE  REIGN  OF 

CHARLES  I. 

CIETERTIAN   MONASTERY. 

"  Here  man  more  purely  lives*  less  oft  doth 

All, 

More  promptly  rises,  walks  with  nicer  heed, 


"  Bonum  est  nos  hie  esse,  quia  homo  vivis 


2l« 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SXETCIIES. 


More  safely  rests,  dies  happier,  is  freed 
Earlier  from   cleansing  fires,   and  gains 

withal 
A  brighter  crown. " — Onyon  Cistertian  wall 
That  confident  assurance  may  be  read  ; 
And,  to  like  shelter,  from  the  world  have  fled 
Increasing  multitudes.     The  potent  call 
Doubtless  shall  cheat  full  oft  the  heart's 

desires  ; 
Yet,  while  the  rugged  age  on  pliant  knee 
Vows  to  rapt  fancy  humble  fealty, 
A  gentler  life  spreads  round  the  holy  spires  ; 
Where'er  they  rise,  the  sylvan  waste  retires, 
And  aerv  harvests  crown  the  fertile  lea 


MONKS    AND   SCHOOLMEN. 

Record  we  too,  with  just  and  faithful  pen, 
That  many  hooded  Cenobites  there  are, 
Who  in  their  private  cells  have  yet  a  care 
Of  public  quiet  ;  unambitious  men, 
Counsellors  for  the  world,  of  piercing  ken  ; 
Whose  fervent  exhortations  from  afar 
Move  princes  to  their  duty,  peace  or  war  ; 
And  oft-times  in  the  most  forbidding  den 
Of  solitude,  with  love  of  science  strong, 
How  patiently  the  yoke  of  thought  they 

bear  ! 
How  subtly  glide  its  finest  threads  along  ! 
Spirits  that  crowd  the  intellectual  sphere 
With  mazy  boundaries,  as  the  astronomer 
With  orb  and  cycle  girds  the  starry  throng. 


OTHER    BENEFITS. 

And  not  in  vain  embodied  to  the  sight 
Religion  finds  even  in  the  stern  retreat 
Of  feudal  sway  her  own  appropriate  seat ; 
From  the  collegiate  pomps  on  Windsor's 

height, 
Down  to  the  humble  altar,  which  the  knight 
And  his  retainers  of  the  embattled  hall 
Seek  in  domestic  oratory  small, 
For  prayer  in  stillness,  or  the  chanted  rite  ; 
Then  chiefly  dear,    whose  foes  are  planted 

round,  [place, 

Who  teach  the  intrepid  guardians  of  the 
Hourly  exposed  to  death,  with  famine  worn, 
And  suffering  under  many  a  perilous  wound, 


purius,  cadit  rarius,  surgit  velocius,  incedit  cau- 
tius,  quiescit  securius,  moritur  felicius,  purgatur 
citius,  prsemiatur  copiosius."—  Bernard.  "This 
sentence,"  says  Dr.  Whitaker,  "  is  usually  in 
scribed  on  some  conspicuous  part  of  the  Cister- 
tian houses." 


How  sad  would  be  their  durance,  if  forlorn 
Of  offices  dispensing  heavenly  grace ! 


CONTINUED. 

And  what  melodious  sounds  at  times  pre- 
vail ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  how  bright  a  gleam 
Pours  on  the  surface  of  the  turbid  stream  ! 
What  heartfelt  fragrance  mingles  with  the 

gale 
That  swells  the  bosom  of  our  passing  sail ! 
For  where,  but  on  this  river's  margin,  blow 
Those  flowers  of  chivalry,  to  bind  the  brow 
Of  hardihood  with  wreaths  that  shall  not 

fail? 
Fair  court  of  Edward  !  wonder  of  the  world  1 
I  see  a  matchless  blazonry  unfurled 
Of  wisdom,  magnanimity,  and  love  ; 
And  meekness  tempering  honourable  pride ; 
The  lamb  is  couching  by  the  lion's  side, 
And  near  the  flame-eyed  eagle  sits  the  dove.' 


CRUSADERS. 

Nor  can  imagination  quit  the  shores 

Of  these  bright  scenes  without  a  farewell 

glance  [mance 

Given  to  those  dream-like  issues — that  ro- 
Of  many-coloured  life  which  fortune  pours 
Round  the  crusaders,  till  on  distant  shores 
Their  labours  end  ;  or  they  return  to  lie, 
The  vow  performed,  in  cross-legged  effigy, 
Devoutly    stretched    upon    their    chancel 

floors.  [chanted 

Am    I    deceived?    Or    is    their    requiem 
By  voices  never  mute  when  heaven  unties 
Her  inmost,  softest,  tenderest  harmonies  ; 
Requiem  which  earth  takes  up  with  voice 

undaunted  [and  wise, 

When  she  would  tell  how  good,  and  brave, 
For  their  high  guerdon  not  in  vain  have 

panted  ! 


TRANSUBSTANTIATION. 

Enough  !  for  see,  with  dim  association 
The  tapers  burn  ;  the  odorous  incense  feeds 
A  greedy  flame  ;  the  pompous  mass  pro- 
ceeds :  [cration  ; 
The  priest  bestows  the  appointed  conse- 
And,  while  the  Host  is  raised,  its  eleva- 
tion 
An  awe  and  supernatural  horror  breeds, 
And  all  the  people  bow  their  heads  like 
reeds 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


217 


To  a  soft  breeze,  in  lowly  adoration 

Tim  Valdo  brooked   not.     On  the  banks 

of  Rhone  [thence, 

He   taught,    till   persecution   chased   him 
To  adore  the  Invisible,  and  Him  alone. 
Nor  were  his  followers  loth  to  seek  defence, 
'Mid  woods  and  wilds,  on  Nature's  craggy 

throne,  [sense. 

From  rites  that  trample    upon  soul  and 


WALDENSES. 

These  who  gave  earliest  notice,  as  the 
lark  [gratulate  ; 

Springs   from    the  ground   the   morn    to 
Who  rather  rose  the  day  to  antedate, 
By  striking  out  a  solitary  spark, 
When  all  the  world  with  midnight  gloom 

was  dark — 
The  harbingers  of  good  whom  bitter  hate 
In  vain  endeavoured  to  exterminate, 
Fell  obloquy  pursues  with  hideous  bark,* 
Rut  they  desist  not  ;  and  the  sacred  fire, 
Rekindled   thus,    from   dens  and    savage 

woods 
Moves,  handed  on  with  never-ceasing  care, 
Through  courts,  through  camps,  o'er  limi- 
tary floods  ; 
Nor  lacks  this  sea-girt  isle  a  timely  share 
Of  the  new  flame,  not  suffered  to  expire. 


ARCHBISHOP   CHICHLEY   TO   HENRY   V. 

"What  beast  in  wilderness  or  cultured 

field 
The  lively  beauty  of  the  leopard  shows  ? 
What  flower  in  meadow-ground  or  garden 

grows 
That  to  the  towering  lily  doth  not  yield  ? 
Let  both  meet  only  on  thy  royal  shield  ! 

*  The  list  of  foul  names  bestowed  upon  those 
poor  creatures  is  long  and  curious  ;  and,  as  is, 
alas  !  too  natural,  mo>t  of  the  opprobrious  ap- 
pellations are  drawn  from  circumstances  into 
which  they  were  forced  by  their  persecutors, 
who  even  consolidated  their  miseries  into  one 
reproachful  term,  calling  them  Patarenians  or 
Paturins,  from  fad,  to  suffer. 

"  Dwellers  with  wolves  she  names  them,  for  the 
pine 
And  green  oak  are  their  covert ;  as  the  gloom 
Of  night  oft  foils  their  enemy's  design, 
She  calls  them  riders  on  the  flying  broom  ; 
Sorcerers,  whose  frame  and  aspect  have  be- 
come 
One  and  the  same  through  practices  malign."  I 


Go  forth,  great  king,  !  claim  what  thy  birth 

bestows  ; 
Conquer  the  Gallic  lily  which  th#  foes 
Dare   to   usurp  ; — thou   hast  a    sword   to 

wield,  [mitred  sire 

And  Heaven  will  crown  the  right." — The 
Thus    spake— and  lo  1  a  fleet,   for  Gaul 

addrest,  [ing  seas  ; 

Ploughs  her  bold  course  across  the  wonder- 
For,  sooth  to  say,  ambition,  in  the  breast 
Of  youthful  heroes,  is  no  sullen  fire, 
But   one  that   leaps   to  meet   the  fanning 

breeze. 


WARS  OF  YORK   AND   LANCASTER. 

Thus  is  the  storm  abated  by  the  craft 
Of  a  shrewd  counsellor,  eager  to  protect 
The  Church,  whose  power  hath  recently 

been  checked,  [the  shaft 

Whose  monstrous  riches  threatened.     So 
Of  victory  mounts  high,  and  blood  is  quaffed 
In  fields  that  rival  Cressy  and  Poictiers — 
Pride  to  be  washed  away  by  bitter  tears  ; 
For  deep  as  hell  itself,  the  avenging  draught 
Of  civil  slaughter !    Yet,    while   temporal 

power  [truth 

Is   by   these    shocks  exhausted,    spiritual 
Maintains  the  else  endangered  gift  of  life  ; 
Proceeds  from  infancy  to  lusty  youth  ; 
And,  under  cover  of  this  woeful  strife, 
Gathers  unblighted  strength  from  hour  to 

hour. 


Once  more   the  Church  is    seized  with 

sudden  fear, 
And  at  her  call  is  Wicliffe  disinhumed  ; 
Yea,  his  dry  bones  to  ashes  are  consumed, 
And  flung  into  the  brook  that  travels  near  ■, 
Forthwith  that  ancient  voice  which  streams 

can  hear,  [the  wind, 

Thus  speaks,  (that  voice  which  walks  upon 
Though  seldom  heard  by  busy  human  kind, ) 
"  As  thou  these   ashes,   little  brook!  wilt 

bear 
Into  the  Avon,  Avon  to  the  tide 
Of  Severn,  Severn  to  the  narrow  seas, 
Into  main  ocean  they,  this  deed  accurst 
An  emblem  yields  to  friends  and  enemies 
How  the  bold  teacher's  doctrine,  sanctified 
By  truth  shall  spread  throughout  the  world 

dispersed." 


218 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


Corruptions  of  the  higher  clergy. 

"Woe  to  you,  prelates  !  rioting  in  ease 
And  cumbrous  wealth—  i  he  shame  of  your 

estate  ; 
You  on  whose  progress  dazzling  trains  await 
Of    pompous    horses ;    whom    vain    titles 

please, 
Who  will  be  served  by  others  on  their  knees, 
Yet  will  yourselves  to  God  no  service  pay  ; 
Pastors  who  neither  take  nor  point  the  way 
To  Heaven  ;  for  either  lost  in  vanities 
Ye  have  no  skill  to  teach,  or  if  ye  know 
And  speak  the  word "Alas!  of  fearful 

things 
Tis  the  most  fearful  when  the  people's  eye 
Abuse  hath  cleared  from  vain  imaginings  ; 
And  taught  'die  general  voine  to  prophesy 
CM"  justice  armed,  and  pride  to  be  laid  low. 


abuse  of  monastic  power. 

And  what   is   penance   with   her  knotted 

thong, 
Mortification  with  the  shirt  of  hair, 
Wan   cheek,    and    knees  indurated   with 

prayer, 
Vigils  and  fastings  rigorous  as  long, 
If  cloistered  avarice  scruple  not  to  wrong 
The  pious,  humble,  useful  secular, 
And  rob  the  people  of  his  daily  care, 
Scorning  that  world  whose  blindness  makes 

her  strong? 
Inversion  strange  !  that  unto  one  who  lives 
For  self,  and  struggles  with  himself  alone, 
The  amplest  share  of  heavenly  favour  gives; 
That  to  a  monk  allots,  in  the  esteem 
Of  God  and  man,  place  higher  than  to  him 
Who  on  the  good  of  others  builds  his  own  ! 


Of  its  grave  echoes,  swells  a  choral  strain. 
Whose  votive  burthen  is — "  Our  kingdom's 
here  !" 


dissolution  of  the  monasteries. 

Threats  come  which  no  submission  may 

assuage  ; 
No  sacrifice  avert,  no  power  dispute  ; 
The  tapers  shall  be   quenched,  the  belfries 

mute,  [rage, 

And,  'mid  their  choirs  unroofed  by  selfish 
The  warbling  wren  shall  find  a  leafy  cage  ; 
The    gadding   bramble    hang  her  purple 

fruit  ; 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  gilded  newt 
Lead  unmolested  lives,  and  die  of  age.* 
The  owl  of  evening  and  the  woodland  fox 
For  their  abode   the  shrines   of  Waltham 

choose  : 
Proud  Glastonbury  can  no  more  refuse 
To  stoop   her  head  before   these  desperate 

shocks —  [tells, 

She  whose  high  pomp  displaced,  as  story 
Arimathean  Joseph's  wattled  cells. 


monastic  voluptuousness. 

Vet    more,  — ■  round     many   a    convent's 

blazing  fire 
Unhallowed  threads  of  revelry  are  spun  ; 
There  Venus  sits  disguised  like  a  nun, — 
While  Bacchus,  clothed  in  semblance  of  a 

friar,  [higher 

Pours  out  his   choicest  beverage  high  and 
Sparkling,  until  it  cannot  choose  but  run 
Over  the  bowl,  whose  silver  lip  hath  won 
An  instant  kiss  of  masterful  desire — 
lo  stay  the  precious  waste.     In  every  brain 
Spreads  the  dominion  of  the  sprightly  juice, 
Through    the  wide  world,     fc>    madding 

fancy  dear, 
Till  the  arched  roof,  with  resolute  abuse 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 

The  lovely  nun  (submissive  but  more  meek 
Through    saintly  habit,   than  from  effort 

due 
To  unrelenting  mandates  that  pursue 
With  equal  wrath  the  steps  of  strong  and 

weak) 
Goes  forth — unveiling  timidly  her  cheek 
Suffused  with  blushes  of  celestial  hue, 
While   through  the  convent  gate  to  open 

view 
Softly  she  glides,  another  home  to  seek. 
Not  Iris,  issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine, 
An  apparition  more  divinely  bright  ! 
Not  more  attractive  to  the  dazzled  sight 
Those  watery  glories,  on  the  stormy  brine 
Poured    forth,     while    summer    suns    at 

distance  shine, 
And  the   green  vales   lie   hushed  in   sober 

light  ! 


*  These  two  lines  are  adopted  from  a  MS. 
written  about  the  year  1770,  which  accidentally- 
fell  into  my  possession.  The  close  of  the  pre- 
ceding  sonnet  on  monastic  voluptuousness  is 
taken  from  the  same  source,  as  is  the  verse, 
"  There  Venus  sits,"  &e. 


ECCLESTASTICA L  SKWrnilES. 


210 


CONTINUED. 

Yet  some  noviciates  of  the  cloistral  shnde. 
Or  chained   by   vows,   with  undissembled 

glee 
The  warrant  hail — exulting  to  be  free  ; 
Like  ships   before  whose  keels,  full   long 

embayed 
In  polar  ice,  propitious  winds  have  made 
Unlooked-for  outlet  to  an  open  sea, 
Their  liquid  world,  for  bold  discovery, 
In  all  her  quarters  temptingly  displayed  ! 
Hope  guides  the  young  ;  but  when  the  old 

must  pass  [find 

The  threshold,  whither  shall   they  turn  to 
The  hospitality — the  alms  (alas  ! 
Alms  may  be   needed)   which   that   house 

bestowed  ?  [mind 

Can  they,  in   faith  and  worship,  train  the 
To  keep  this  new  and  questionable  road  ? 


As  to  a  visible  power,  in  which  did  blend 
All  that  was  mixed  and  reconciled  in  thee 
Of  mother's  love  with  maiden  purity, 
Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrene  ! 


SAINTS. 


Ye,  too,  must  fly  before  a  chasing  hand, 
Angels     and     saints,     in     every     hamlet 

mourned  ! 
Ah  !  if  the  old  idolatry  be  spurned, 
Let  not  your  radiant  shapes  desert  the  land  : 
Her  adoration  was  not  your  demand, 
The   fond   heart   proffered  it — the  servile 

heart  ; 
And  therefore  are  ye  summoned  to  depart, 
Michael,    and   thou,    St.    George,    whose 

flaming  brand 
The  dragon  quelled  ;  and  valiant  Margaret 
Whose  rival  sword  a  like  opponent  slew  : 
And  rapt  Cecilia,  seraph-haunted  queen 
Of  harmony  ;  and  weeping  Magdalene, 
Who  in  the  penitential  desert  met 
Gales  sweet  as  those  that  over  Eden  blew  ! 


THE  VIRGIN. 

Mother  !  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost 
With  the  least  shade  of  thought  to  sin  allied ; 
Woman  !  above  all  women  glorified, 
Our  tainted  nature's  solitary  boast ; 
Purer  than  foam  on  central  ocean  tost ; 
Brighter   than  eastern  skies  at   daybreak 

strewn  [moon 

With  fancied   roses,  than  the  unblemished 
Before  her  wane  begins  on  heaven's  blue 

coast ; 
Thy  image  falls  to  earth.  Yet  some,  I  ween, 
Not  unforgiven    the  suppliant   knee  might 

bend, 


Not  utterly  unworthy  to  endure 
Was  the  supremacy  of  crafty  Rome  ; 
Age  alter  age  to  the  arch  of  Christendom 
Aerial  keystone  haughtily  seci"-o  ; 
Supremacy  from  Heaven  transmitted  pure 
As  many  hold  ;  and,  therefore,  to  the  tomb 
Pass,     some    through    fire  —  and   by   the 

scaffold  some — 
Like  saintly  Fisher,  and  unbending  More. 
"  Lightly  for  both  the  bosom's  lord  did  sit 
Upon  his  throne  ;"  unsoftened,  undismayed 
By  aught  that  mingled  with  the  tragic  scene 
Of  pity  or  fear  ;  and  Mores  gay  genius 

played 
With  the  inonensive  sword  of  native  wit, 
Than  the  bare  axe  more  luminous  and  keen. 


IMAGINATIVE   REGRETS. 

Deep  is  the  lamentation  !    Not  alone 
From  sages  justly  honoured  by  mankind, 
But  from  the  ghostly  tenants  of  the  wind. 
Demons    and    spirits,    many   a    dolorous 

groan 
Issues  for  that  dominion  overthrown  : 
Proud  Tiber  grieves,  and  far-off  Ganges, 

blind 
As  his  own  worshippers ;  and  Nile,  reclined 
Upon  his  monstrous  urn,  the  farewell  moan 
Renews. — Through  every  forest,  cave,  and 

den,  [sorrow  past— 

Where  frauds  were  hatched  of  old,   hath 
Hangs  o'er  the  Arabian  prophet's  native 

waste 
Where  once  his  airy  helpers  schemed  and 

planned 
'Mid  phantom  lakes  bemocking  thirsty  men, 
And  stalking  pillars  built  of  fiery  sand. 


I  REFLECTIONS. 

Grant,  that  by  this  unsparing  hurricane 
Green  leaves  with  yellow  mixed  are  torn 

away, 

And  goodly  fruitage  with  the  mother  spray, 

Twere  madness — wished  we,  therefore,  to 

detain,  .  [disdain, 

With  hands   stretched    forth    in    mollified 


220 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


The    "trumpery"    that    ascends    in    bare 
display, —  [and  gray, 

Bulls,  pardons,  relics,  cowls,  black,  white, 
Unwhirled — and  flying   o'er  the  ethereal 
plain  [not  choice 

Fast   bound  for   Limbo   Lake. — And  yet 
But  habit  rules  the  unreflecting  herd, 
And  airy  bonds  are  hardest  to  disown  ; 
Hence,  with  the  spiritual  sovereignty  trans- 
ferred 
Unto  itself,  the  crown  assumes  a  voice 
Of  reckless  mastery,  hitherto  unknown. 


TRANSLATION   OF  THE    BIBLE. 

But  to  outweigh  all  harm,  the  sacred  Book, 
In  dusty  sequestration  wrapt  too  long, 
Assumes  the  accents  of  our  native  tongue  ; 
And  he  who  guides  the  plough,  or  wields 

the  crook, 
With  understanding  spirit  now  may  look 
Upon  her  records,  listen  to  her  song, 
And  sift  her  laws — much  wondering  that 
the  wrong,  [calmly  brook. 

Which  faith  has  suffered,    Heaven  could 
Transcendent  boon  !  noblest  that  earthly 

king 
Ever  bestowed  to  equalise  and  bless 
Under  the  weight  of  mortal  wretchedness  ! 
But  passions  spread  like  plagues,  and  thou- 
sands wild 
With  bigotry  shall  tread  the  offering 
Beneath  their  feet — detested  and  defiled. 


THE   POINT  AT   ISSUE. 

For  what  contend  the  wise?  for  nothing 
less  [of  sense  ; 

Than  that  pure  laith  dissolve  the  bonds 
The  soul  restored  to  God  by  evidence 
Of    things   not   seen — drawn    forth    from 

their  recess, 
Root  there,  and  not  in  forms,  her  holiness  ; 
That  faith  which  to  the  patriarchs  did  dis- 
pense 
Sure  guidance,  ere  a  ceremonial  fence 
Was  needful  round  men  thirsting  to  trans- 
gress ;  [the  Lord 
That  faith,  more  perfect  still,  with  which 
Of  all,  himself  a  Spirit,  in  the  youth 
Of  Christian  aspiration,  deigned  to  fill 
The  temples  of  their  hearts — who,  with  His 

word 
Informed,  were  resolute  to  do  His  will, 
And  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 


EDWARD  VI. 

"  Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  youth" — so  felt 
Time-honoured  Chaucer  when  he  framed 

the  lay 
By  which  the  prioress  beguiled  the  way, 
And   many  a   pilgrim's  rugged  heart  did 

melt.  [dwelt 

Hadst  thou,  loved  bard  !  whose  spirit  often 
In  the  clear  land  of  vision,  but  foreseen 
King,  child,   and  seraph,  blended   in  the 

mien 
Of  pious  Edward  kneeling  as  he  knelt 
In  meek  and  simple  infancy,  what  joy 
For  universal  Christendom  had  thrilled 
Thy  heart  !  what  hopes  inspired  thy  geniuSj 

skilled 
(O  great  precursor,  genuine  morning  star) 
The  lucid  shafts  of  reason  to  employ, 
Piercing  the  papal  darkness  from  afar  ! 


EDWARD   SIGNING  THE   WARRANT   FOR 
THE  EXECUTION   OF  JOAN    OF   KENT. 

The  tears  of  man  in  various  measure  gush 
From  various  sources  ;  gently  overflow 
From  blissful  transport  some — from  clefts 

of  woe 
Some  with  ungovernable  impulse  rush  ; 
And  some,  coeval  with  the  earliest  blush 
Of  infant  passion,  scarcely  dare  to  show 
Their  pearly  lustre — coming  but  to  go  ; 
And  some  break  forth  when  others'  sorrows 

crush  [yet 

The  sympathising  heart.     Nor  these,  nor 
The  noblest  drops  to  admiration  known, 
To  gratitude,  to  injuries  forgiven, 
Claim   Heaven's   regard   like  waters   that 

have  wet 
The  innocent  eyes  of  youthful  monarchs, 

driven 
To  pen  the  mandates  nature  doth  disown. 


REVIVAL   OF   POPERY. 

Melts  into  silent  shades  the  youth,  dis- 
crowned 
By  unrelenting  death.     O  people  keen 
For  change,  to  whom  the  new  looks  always 
green  !  [ground 

They  cast,   they  cast   with  joy  upon   the 
Their  gods  of  wood  and  stone  ;  and,  at  the 

sound 
Of  counter-proclamation,  now  are  seen, 
(Proud  triumph  is  it  for  a  sullen  queen  !) 
Lifting  them  up,  the  worship  to  confound 


EOGLESIASTH  UL  SKETCHES. 


OO] 


Of  the  Most  High.     Again  do  they  invoke 
The  creature,  to  the  creature  glory  give  ; 
Again  with  frankincense  the  altars  smoke 
Like  those  the  heathen  served  ;   and  macs 

is  sung ; 
And  prayer,  man's  rational  prerogative, 
Runs  through   blind  channels   of  an    un- 
known tongue. 


LATIMER    AND    RIDLEY. 

How  fast  the  Marian  death-list  is  unrolled  ! 
See  Latimer  and  Ridley*  in  the  might 
Of  faith  stand  coupled  for  a  common  flight ! 
One  (like  those  prophets  whom  God  sent  of 

old)  [told 

Transfigured,  from  this  kindling  hath  fore- 
A  torch  of  inextinguishable  light ; 
The  other  gains  a  confidence  as  bold  ; 
And  thus  they  foil  their  enemy's  despite. 
The  penal  instruments,  the  shows  of  crime, 
Are  glorified  while  this  once-mitred  pair 
Of  saintly  friends,  the  "  murtherer's  chain 

partake, 
Corded,  and  burning  at  the  social  stake  :" 
Earth  never  witnessed  object  more  sublime 
In  constancy,  in  fellowship  more  fair  ! 


CRANMF.R. 


Outstretching  flame-ward  his  upbraided 

hand 
(O  God  of  mercy,  may  no  earthly  seat 
Of  judgment    such    presumptuous   doom 

repeat  !) 


*  "M.  Latimer  very  quietly  suffered  his 
keeper  to  pull  off  his  hose,  and  his  other  aray, 
which  to  looke  unto  was  very  simple ;  and 
being  stripped  into  his  shrowd,  he  seemed  as 
tomely  a  person  to  them  that  were  present,  as 
one  should  lightly  see  :  and  whereas  in  his 
clothes  hee  appeared  a  withered  and  crooked 
sillie  (weaK)  olde  man,  he  now  stood  bolt  up- 
rignt,  as  comely  a  father  as  one  might  lightly 

behold Then   they  brought  a  fag- 

gotte,  kindled  with  fire,  and  laid  the  same  downe 
at  doctor  Ridley's  feetc.  To  whom  M.  Latimer 
spake  in  this  manner,  '  Bee  of  good  comfort, 
master  Ridley,  and  play  the  man  :  wee  shall 
this  day  light  such  a  candle  by  God's  grace  in 
England,  as  I  trust  shall  never  bee  put  out.'"  — 
Fox's  Acts,  etc. 

Similar  alterations  in  the  outward  figure  and 
deportment  of  persons  brought  to  like  trial  were 
not  uncommon.  See  note  to  the  above  passage 
in  Dr.  Wordsworth's  Ecclesiastical  Biography, 
for  an  example  in  a  humble  Welfffa  fisherman. 


Amid  the  shuddering  throng  doth  Cranmer 
stand  ; 

Firm  as  the  stake  to  which  with  iron  band 
His  frame  is  tied  ;  firm  from  the  naked  feel 
To  the  bare  head,  the  victory  complete  ; 
The  shrouded  body,  to  the  soul's  command, 
Answering  with  more  than  Indian  fortitude, 
Through  all  her  nerves   with  finer  sense 

endued, 
Till  breath  departs  in  blissful  aspiration  : 
Then,  'mid  the  ghastly  ruins  of  the  fire, 
Behold  the  unalterable  heart  entire, 
Emblem   of  faith   untouched,    miraculous 

attestation  !t 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  TROUBLES  OF 
THE  REFORMATION. 

Aid,  glorious  martyrs,  from  your  fields  of 

light 
Our  mortal  ken  !  Inspire  a  perfect  trust 
(While    we    look    round)    that    Heaven'* 

decrees  are  just  : 
Which  few  can  hold  committed  to  a  fight 
That  shows,  even  on  its  better  side,  the 

might 
Of  proud  self  will,  rapacity,  and  lust, 
'Mid  clouds  enveloped  of  polemic  dust, 
Which  showers   of  blood  seem   rather  tc 

incite 
Than  to  allay.— Anathemas  are  hurled 
From  both   sides ;   veteran  thunders    (the 

brute  test 
Of  truth)  are  met  by  fulminations  new — 
Tartarian   flags   are   caught   at,    and   un- 
furled— 
Friends  strike  at  friends — the  flying  shall 

pursue —  [rest  ! 

And  victory  sickens,    ignorant   where  to 


ENGLISH    REFORMERS   IN    EXILE. 

Scattering,  like  birds  escaped  the  fowler's 
net,  [strand  ; 

Some   seek   with    timely  flight   a   foreign 
Most  happy,  re-assembled  in  a  land 
By   dauntless    Luther    freed,    could    they 
forget  [they  met, 

Their  country's  woes.     But  scarcely  have 
Partners  in  faith,  and  brothers  in  distress, 
Free  to  pour  forth  their  common  thank- 
fulness, 
Ere  hope  declines  ;  their  union  is  beset 


t  For  the  belief  in  this  fact  sec  the   contem- 
porary historians. 


222 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


vVith  speculative  notions  rashly  sown, 
Whence  thickly-sprouting  growth  of  poi- 
sonous weeds  ;  [sions  steeds 
Their  forms  are  broken  staves  ;  their  pas- 
That  master  them.  How  enviably  blest 
Is  he  who  can,  by  help  of  grace,  enthrone 
The  peace  of  God  within  his  single  breast ! 


ELIZABETH. 

Hail,  virgin  queen  !  o'er  many  an  envious 
bar  [cherous  wile  ! 

Triumphant — snatched  from  many  a  trea- 
All  hail,  sage  lady,  whom  a  grateful  isle 
Hath  blest,  respiring  from  that  dismal  war 
Stilled  by  thy  voice  !  But  quickly  from  afar 
Defiance  breathes  with  more  malignant 
aim  ;  [claim 

And  alien  storms  with  homt-bred  ferments 
Portentous  fellowship.     Her  silver  car 
By  sleepless  prudence  ruled,  glides  slowly 

on  ; 
Unhurt  by  violence,  from  menaced  taint 
Emerging  pure,  and  seemingly  more  bright ! 
For,  wheresoe'er  she  moves,  the  clouds  anon 
Disperse  ;  or,  under  a  divine  constraint, 
Reflect  some  portion  of  her  glorious  light  ! 


EMINENT   REFORMERS. 

Methinks  that  I  could  trip  o'er  heaviest 

soil,  [wave, 

Light  as   a  buoyant   bark   from   wave  to 

Were  mine  the  trusty  staff  that  Jewel  gave 

To  youthful  Hooker,  in  familiar  style 

The  gift  exalting,  and  with  playful  smile  :* 

For  thus   equipped,    and   bearing  on   his 

head  [dread 

The    donor's    farewell    blessing,    can    he 

Tempest,  or  length  of  way,  or  weight  of 

toil? 


•  "  On  foot  they  went,  and  took  Salisbury  in 
their  way,  purposajy  to  see  the  good  bishop,  who 
made  Mr.  Hooker  sit  at.his  own  table, — which  Mr. 
Hooker  boasted  of  with  much  joy  and  gratitude 
when  he  saw  his  mother  and  friends  ;  and  at 
the  bishop's  parting  with  him,  the  bishop  gave 
him  good  counsel,  and  his  benediction,  but  for- 
got to  give  him  money  ;  which  when  the  bishop 
had  considered,  he  sent  a  servant  in  all  haste  to 
call  Richard  back  to  him,  and  at  Richard's  re- 
turn, the  bishop  said  to  him,  '  Richard,  I  sent 
for  you  back  to  lend  you  a  horse  which  hath 
carried  me  many  a  mile,  and,  I  thank  God,  with 
much  ease,'  and  presently  delivered  into  his  hand 
a  walking-staff,  with  which  he  professed  he  had 
travelled  through  many  parts  of  Germany  ;  and 


More  sweet  than  odours   caught   by  him 

who  sails 
Near  spicy  shores  of  Araby  the  blest, 
A  thousand  times  more  exquisitely  sweet, 
The  freight  of  holy  feeling  which  we  meet, 
In   thoughtful    moments,    wafted    by   the 

gales  [bowers  wherein  they  rest. 

From   fields   where  good    men    walk,    or 


THE    SAME. 

Holy  and  heavenly  spirits  as  they  are, 
Spotless  in  life,  and  eloquent  as  wise, 
With  what  entire  affection  do  they  prize 
Their  new-born  Church  !    labouring  with 

earnest  care 
To  baffle  all  that  may  her  strength  impair  ; 
That  Church  —  the  unperverted   gospel's 

seat ; 
In  their  afflictions  a  divine  retreat  ; 
Source  of  their  liveliest  hope,  and  tenderest 

prayer ! 
The  truth  exploring  with  an  equal  mind, 
In    doctrine  and   communion   they    have 

sought 
Firmly  between  the  two  extremities  to  steer  ; 
But  theirs  the  wise  man's  ordinary  lot, 
To  trace   right  courses  for  the  stubborn 

blind, 
And  prophesy  to  ears  that  will  not  hear. 


DISTRACTIONS. 

Men,  who  have  ceased  to  reverence,  soon 
defy  [and  split 

Their  forefathers  ;    lo  !  sects  are  formed — 
With  morbid  restlessness, — the  ecstatic  fit 
Spreads  wide  ;    though   special   mysteries 
multiply,  [cry ; 

The  saints  must  govern,  is  their  common 
And  so  they  labour  ;  deeming  Holy  Writ 
Disgraced  by  aught  that  seems  content  to 


he  said,  '  Richard,  I  do  not  give,  but  lend  you 
my  horse  ;  be  sure  you  be  honest,  and  bring  my 
horse  back  to  me  at  your  return  this  way  to  Ox- 
ford. And  I  do  now  give  you  ten  groats  to  bear 
your  charges  to  Exeter  ;  and  here  is  ten  groats 
more,  which  I  charge  you  to  deliver  to  your 
mother,  and  tell  her  I  send  her  a  bishop's  bene- 
diction with  it,  and  beg  the  continuance  of  her 
prayers  for  me.  And  if  you  bring  my  horse 
back  to  me,  I  will  give  you  ten  groats  more  to 
carry  you  on  foot  to  the  college  ;  and  so  God 
bless  you,  good  Richard.'" — See  Walton's 
Life  of  Richard  Hooker. 


E<  7 ' L ESTASTTCAL  $KET( 'JTEF. 


223 


Beneath  the  roof  of  settled  modesty. 

The  Romanist  exults  ;  fresh  hope  he  draws 

From  the  confusion— craftily  incites 

The  overweening — personates  the  mad  * — 

To  heap  disgust  upon  the  worthier  cause  : 

Totters  the  throne  ;    the  new-born  Church 

is  sad, 
For  every  wave  against  her  peace  unites. 


GUNPOWDER    PLOT. 

Fear  hath  a  hundred  eyes  that  all  agree 
To  plague  her  beating  heart  ;  and  there  is 

one 
(Nor  idlest  that !)  which  holds  communion 
With  things  that  were  not,  yet  were  meant 

to  be. 
Aghast  within  its  gloomy  cavity 
That  eye  (which  sees  as  if  fulfilled  and  done 
Crimes  that  might  stop  the  motion  of  the 

sun) 
Beholds  the  horrible  catastrophe 
Of  an  assembled  senate  unredeemed 
From     subterraneous     treason's    darkling 

power ; 
Merciless  act  of  sorrow  infinite  ! 
Worse  than  the  product  of  that  dismal  night, 
When  gushing,  copious  as  a  thunder-shower, 
The  blood   of  Huguenots   through    Paris 

streamed. 


TROUBLES    OF    CHARLES  THE   FIRST. 

Such  is  the  contrast,  which  where'er  we 

move, 
To  the  mind's  eye  religion  doth  present ; 
Now  with  her  own  deep  quietness  content ; 
Then,  like  the  mountain,  thundering  from 

above 
Against  the  ancient  pine-trees  of  the  grove 
And  the  land's  humblest  comforts.     Now 

her  mood 
Recals  the  transformation  of  the  flood, 
Whose  rage  the  gentle  skies  in  vain  reprove, 
Earth  cannot  check.     Oh,  terrible  excess 
Of  headstrong  will !  Can  this  be  piety? 
No — some  fierce  maniac  hath  usurped  her 

name  ; 
And  scourges  England  struggling  to  be  free  : 
Her  peace  destroyed  !  her  hopes  a  wilder- 
ness !  shame  1 
Her  blessings  cursed— her  glory  turned  to 


ILLUSTRATION. 

The  Virgin   Mountain,!  wearing    like  a 

queen 
A  brilliant  crown  of  everlasting  snow, 
Sheds  ruin  from  her  sides  ;  and  men  below 
Wonder  that  aught  of  aspect  so  serene 
Can   link   with   desolation.     Smooth   and 

green, 
And  seeming,  at  a  little  distance,  slow, 
The  waters  of  the  Rhine  ;  but  on  they  go 
Fretting  and  whitening,  keener  and  more 

keen, 
Till  madness  seizes  on  the  whole  wide  flood, 
Turned  to  a  fearful  thing  whose  nostrils 

breathe  [he  tries 

Blasts  of  tempestuous  smoke — wherewith 
To  hide  himself,  but  only  magnifies  ; 
And   doth  in   more  conspicuous   torment 

writhe, 
Deafening  the  region  in  his  ireful  mood. 

*  A  common  device  in  religious  and  political 
conflicts.  — See  Strype  in  support  of  tnis  in- 
stance. 

t    The  Jungfrau. 


LAUD.t 

Prejudged  by  foes  determined  not  tospare, 
An  old  weak  man   for  vengeance  thrown 

aside, 
Laud,  "  in  the  painful  art  of  dying  "  tried, 
(Like  a  poor  bird  entangled  in  a  snare 
Whose  heart  still  flutters,  though  his  wingr 

forbear 
To  stir  in  useless  struggle)  hath  relied 
On  hope  that  consciousinnocence  supplied, 
And  in  his  prison  breathes  celestial  air. 
Why  tarries,  then,  thy  chariot  ?  Wherefore 

stay.  [wheels, 

O  death  !    the  ensanguined  yet  triumphant 

t  In  this  age  a  word  cannot  be  said  in  praise 
of  Laud,  or  even  in  compassion  for  his  fate, 
without  incurring  a  charge  of  bigotry,  but 
fearless  of  such  imputation,  I  concur  with  Hume, 
"that  it  is  sufficient  for  his  vindication  to  ob- 
serve, that  his  errors  were  the  most  excusable  of 
all  those  which  prevailed  during  that  zealous 
period."  A  key  to  the  right  understanding  of 
those  parts  of  his  conduct  that  brought  the  most 
odium  upon  him  in  his  own  time,  may  be  found 
in  the  following  passage  of  his  speech  before  the 
bar  of  the  House  of  Peers  : — "  Ever  since  I 
came  in  place.  I  have  laboured  nothing  more 
than  that  the  external  public  worship  of  God,  so 
much  slighted  in  divers  parts  of  this  kingdom, 
might  be  preserved,  and  that  with  as  much  de- 
cency and  uniformity  as  might  be.  For  I  evi- 
dently saw,  that  the  publick  neglect  of  God's 
service  in  the  outward  face  of  it,  and  the  nasty 
lying  of  many  places  dedicated  to  that  service, 
had  almost  cast  a  damp  upon  the  true  and  in- 
ward worship  of  God,  which,  while  ive  lite  in 
the  body  needs  external  helps,  and  all  little 
enough  to  keep  it  in  any  vieoiir  " 


254 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


Which  thou  prepar'st,  full  often  to  convey, 
(What   time  a  state  with  madding  faction 

reels) 
The  saint  or  patriot  to  the  world  that  heals 
All  wounds,  all  perturbations  doth  allay  ? 


AFFLICTIONS    OF   ENGLAND. 

Harp  !  couldst  thou  venture,  on  thy  boldest 

string, 
The  faintest  note  to  echo  which  the  blast 
Caught  from  the  hand  of  Moses  as  it  past 
O'er  Sinai's  top,  or  from  the  shepherd  king, 
Early  awake,  by  Siloa's  brook,  to  sing 
Of  dread  Jehovah  ;  then,  should  wood  and 

waste 
Hear  also  of  that  name,  and  mercy  cast 
Off  to  the  mountains,  like  a  covering 
Of  which  the  Lord  was  weary.    Weep,  oil ! 

weep,  [priest 

Weep  with  the  good,  beholding  king  and 
Despised  by  that  stern  God  to  whom  they 

raise 
Their  suppliant  hands  ;  but  holy  is  the  feast 
He  keepeth  ;  like  the  firmament  his  ways  ; 
His  statutes  like  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 


PART   III. 

FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  THE 
PRESENT  TIMES. 

I  SAW  the  figure  of  a  lovely  maid 
Seated  alone  beneath  a  darksome  tree, 
Whose  fondly  overhanging  canopy 
Set  off  her  brightness  with  a  pleasing  shade, 
Substance  she  seemed  (and  that  my  heart 

betrayed, 
For  she  was  one  I  loved  exceedingly)  ; 
But  while  I  gazed  in  tender  reverie 
(Or  was  it  sleep  that  with  my  fancy  played?) 
The  bright  corporeal  presence,  form,  and 

face, 
Remaining  still  distinct,  grew  thin  and  rare, 
Like  sunny  mist ;  at  length  the  golden  hair, 
Shape,  limbs,  and  heavenly  features,  keep- 
ing pace 
Each,  with  the  other,  in  a  lingering  race 
Of  dissolution,  melted  into  air. 


PATRIOTIC   SYMPATHIES. 

Last  night,  without  a  voice,  this  vision 

spake 
Fear  to  my  spirit— passion  that  might  seem 
Wholly  dissevered  from  our  present  theme; 
Yet  do  I  love  my  country — and  partake 
Of  kindred  agitations  for  her  sake  ; 
She  visits  oftentimes  my  midnight  dream  ; 
Her  glory  meets  me  with  the  earliest  beam 
Of  light,  which  tells  that  morning  is  awake. 
If  aught  impair  her  beauty  or  destroy, 
Or  but  forebode  destruction.  I  deplore 
With  filial  love  the  sad  vicissitude  ; 
If  she  hath  fallen  and  righteous  Heaven  re- 
store [newed, 
The  prostrate,  then  my  spring-time  is  re- 
And  sorrow  bartered  for  exceeding  joy. 


CHARLES   THE   SECOND. 

Who  comes  with    rapture    greeted,   and 

caressed 
With  frantic  love — his  kingdom  to  regain  ? 
Him  virtue's  nurse,  adversity,  in  vain 
Received,  and  fostered  in  her  iron  breast  : 
For  all  she  taught  of  hardiest  and  of  best, 
Or  would  have  taught,  by  discipline  of  pain 
And  long  privation,  now  dissolves  amain, 
Or  is  remembered  only  to  give  zest 
To  wantonness. — Away,  Circean  revels  ! 
Already  stands  our  country  on  the  brink 
Of  bigot  rage,  that  all  distinction  levels 
Of  truth   and   falsehood,    swallowing   the 

good  name,  [misery,  shame, 

And,   with   that   draught,    the  life-blood : 
By  poets  loathed  ;    from  which  historians 

shrink ! 

LATITUDINARIANISM. 

Yet  truth  is  keenly  sought  for,  and  the  wind 
Charged  with   rich  words   poured  out  in 

thought's  defence  ; 
Whether  the  Church  inspire  that  elonuence, 
Or  a  Platonic  piety  confined 
To  the  sole  temple  of  the  inward  mind  ; 
And  one  there  is  who  builds  immoral  lays, 
Though  doomed  to  tread  in  solitary  ways, 
Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind  ! 
Yet  not  alone,  nor  helpless  to  repel 
Sad  thoughts  ;    for  from  above  the  starry 

sphere 
Come  secrets,  whispered  nightly  to  his  ear  ; 
And  the  pure  spirit  of  celestial  light 
Shines  through  his  soul— "that  he  may  see 

and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


095 


CLERICAL    INTEGRITY. 

NOR  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject 
Those  unconforming  ;  whom  one  rigorous 

day 
Drives  from  their  cures,  a  voluntary  prey 
To  poverty  and  grief,  and  disrespect, 
And    some   to   want  —  as   if  by  tempests 

wrecked 
On  a  wild  coast  ;    how  destitute  !   did  they 
Feel  not  that  conscience  never  can  betray, 
That  peace  of  mind  is  virtue's  sure  effect. 
Their  altars  they  forego,  their  homes  they 

quit,  [trod, 

Fields  which  they  love,  and  paths  they  daily 
And  cast  the  future  upon  Providence  ; 
As  men  the  dictate  of  whose  inward  sense 
Outweighs  the  world  ;  whom  self-deceiving 

wit  [of  God. 

Lures  not  from  what  they  deem  the  cause 


PERSECUTION    OF    THE    SCOTTISH    COVE- 
NANTERS. 

When  Alpine  vales  threw  forth  a  suppliant 

cry, 
The  majesty  of  England  interposed 
And   the    sword    stopped ;    the    bleeding 

wounds  were  closed  ; 
And  faith  preserved  her  ancient  purity. 
How  little  boots  that  precedent  of  good, 
Scorned  or  forgotten,  thou  canst  testify, 
For  England's  shame,  O  sister  realm  !  from 
wood,  [where  lie 

Mountain,  and  moor,  and  crowded  street, 
The  headless  martyrs  of  the  Covenant, 
Slain  by  compatriot-protestants  that  draw 
From  councils  senseless  as  intolerant 
Their  warrant.     Bodies  fall  by  wild  sword- 
law  ;  [a  straw 
But  who  would  force  the  soul,  tilts  with 
Against  a  champion  cased  in  adamant. 


ACQUITTAL   OF  THE   BISHOPS. 

A  VOICE,   from  long-expecting  thousands 
sent,  [spire — 

Shatters  the  air,   and  troubles  tower  and 
For  justice  hath  absolved  the  innocent, 
And  tyranny  is  balked  of  her  desire  : 
Up,  down,  the  busy  Thames — rapid  as  fire 
Coursing  a  train  of  gunpowder — it  went, 
And  transport  finds  in  every  street  a  vent, 
Till  the  whole  city  rings  like  one  vast  quire. 
The  fathers  urge  the  people  to  be  still 


With  outstretched  hands  and  earnest  speech 

— in  vain  ! 
Yea,  many,  haply  wont  to  entertain 
Small  reverence  for  the  mitre's  offices, 
And  to  religion's  self  no  friendly  will, 
A  prelate's  blessing  ask  on  bended  knees. 


WILLIAM   THE   THIRD. 

Calm  as  an  under-current — strong  to  draw 
Millions  of  waves  into  itself,  and  run, 
From  sea  to  sea,  impervious  to  the  sun 
And  ploughing  storm — the  spirit  of  Nassau 
(By  constant  impulse  of  religious  awe 
Swayed,  and  thereby  enabled  to  contend 
With  the  wide  world's  commotions)  from 

its  end 
Swerves  not — diverted  by  a  casual  law. 
Had  mortal  action  e'er  a  nobler  scope  ? 
The  hero  comes  to  liberate,  not  defy  : 
And,  while  he  marches  on  with  righteous 

hope, 
Conqueror  beloved  !  expected  anxiously  ! 
The  vacillating  bondman  of  the  pope, 
Shrinks  from  the  verdict  of  his  steadfast 

eye. 


OBLIGATIONS   OF  CIVIL  TO   RELIGIOUS 
LIBERTY. 

Ungrateful  country,  if  thou  e'er  forget 
The  sons   who   for  thy   civil  rights   have 

bled !  [head, 

How,    like   a  Roman,    Sidney  bowed   his 
And    Russel's   milder    blood   the  scaffold 

wet  ; 
But  these  had  fallen  for  profitless  regret 
Had  not  thy  holy  Church  her  champions 

bred  ; 
And  claims  from  other  worlds  inspirited 
The  star  of  liberty  to  rise.     Nor  yet 
(Grave  this  within  thy  heart !)  if  spiritual 

things 
Be  lost,  through  apathy,  or  scorn,  or  fear, 
Shalt  thou  thy  humbler  franchises  support, 
However  hardly  won  or  justly  dear  ; 
What  came  from  Heaven  to   Heaven   by 

nature  clings,  [short. 

And,    if  dissevered   thence,    its  course   is 


Down  a  swift  stream,  thus  far,   a  bold 

design 
Have  we  pursued,  with  livelier  stir  of  heart 
Than  his  who  sees,  borne  forward  by  the 

Rhine, 


226 


ECCLESIAS  TIC  A  L  SKETCHES. 


Thelivinglandscapes greet  him,  and  depart; 
Sees  spires  fast  sinking — up  again  to  start  ! 
And  strives   the   towers   to   number,   that 

recline 
O'er  the  dark  steeps,  or  on  the  horizon  line 
Striding  with  shattered  crests  the  eye- 
athwart  ; —  [pleasure  : 
So  have  we  hurried  on  with  troubled 
Henceforth,  as  on  the  bosom  of  a  stream 
That  slackens,  and  spreads  wide  a  watery 
gleam,  [measure, 
We,  nothing  loth  a  lingering  course  to 
May  gather  up  our  thoughts,  and  mark  at 

leisure 
Features  that  else  had  vanished  like  a  dream . 


WALTON'S    BOOK   OF  LIVES. 

There  arc  no  colours  in  the  fairest  sky 
So  fair  as  these.     The  feather  whence  the 

pen  [good  men 

Was  shaped  that  traced  the  lives  of  these 
Dropped   from  an   angel's  wing.       With 

moistened  eye 
We  read  of  faith  and  purest  charity 
In  statesman,  priest,  and  humble  citizen. 
Oh,  could  we  copy  their  mild  virtues,  then 
What  joy  to  live,  what  blessedness  to  die  ! 
Methinks  their  very  names  shine  still  and 

bright  ; 
Apart,  likeglow-wormsona  summer  night; 
Or  lonely  tapers  when  from  far  they  fling 
A  guiding  ray  ;  or  seen,  like  stars  on  high, 
Satellites  burning  in  a  lucid  ring 
Around  meek  Walton's  heavenly  memory. 


SACHEVERELL. 

A  sudden  conflict  rises  from  the  swell 
Of  a  proud  slavery  met  by  tenets  strained 
In  liberty's  behalf.     Fears,  true  or  feigned, 
Spread   through   all  ranks  ;  and    lo  !   the 

sentinel 
Who  loudest  rang  his  pulpit  'larum  bell, 
Stands  at  the  bar— absolved  by  female  eyes, 
Mingling  their  light  with  graver  flatteries, 
Lavished  on  him  that  England  may  rebel 
Against  her  ancient  virtue.   High  and  Low, 
Watchwords  of  party,  onall  tongues  are  rife'; 
As  if  a  Church,  though  sprung  from  Heaven, ' 

must  owe 
To  opposites  and  fierce  extremes  her  life — 
Not  to  the  golden  mean,  and  quiet  flow 
Of  truths  that  soften  hatred,  temper  strife. 


places  of  worship. 

As  star  that  shines  dependent  upon  star 
Is  to  the  sky  while  we  look  up  in  love  ; 
As  to  the  deep  fair  ships  which  though  tney 
move  [afar ; 

Seem  fixed,  to  eyes  that  watch  them  from 
As  to  the  sandy  desert  fountains  are, 
With  palm-groves  shaded  a*  wide  intervals, 
Whose  fruit  around  the  sun-burnt  native 

falls 
Of  roving  tired  or  desultory  war  ; 
Such  to  this  British  isle  her  Christian  fanes, 
Each  linked  to  each  for  kindred  services  ; 
Her  spires,  her  steeple-towers  with  glitter- 
ing vanes  [trees, 
Far-kenned,    her  chapels   lurking  among 
Where  a  few  villagers  on  bended  knees 
Find  solace  which  a  busy  world  disdains. 


PASTORAL  CHARACTER. 

A  GENIAL  hearth,  a  hospitable  board, 
And  a  refined  rusticity,  belong 
To  the  neat  mansion,*  where,    his  flock 
among,  [lord. 

The  learned  pastor  dwells,   their  watchful 


*  Among  the  benefits  arising,  as  Mr.  Coleridge 
has  well  observed,  from  a  Church  establishment 
of  endowments  corresponding  with  the  wealth 
of  the  country  to  which  it  belongs,  may  be 
reckoned  as  eminently  important,  the  examples 
of  civility  and  refinement  which  the  clergy,  sta- 
tioned at  intervals,  afford  to  the  whole  people. 
The  established  clergy  in  many  parts  of  Eng- 
land have  long  been,  as  they  continue  to  be,  the 
principal  bulwark  against  barbarism,  and  the 
link  which  unites  the  sequestered  peasantry  with 
the  intellectual  advancement  of  the  age.  Nor 
is  it  below  the  dignity  of  the  subject  to  observe 
that  their  taste,  as  acting  upon  rural  residences 
and  scenery,  often  furnishes  models  which  coun- 
try gentlemen,  who  are  more  at  liberty  to  follow 
the  caprices  of  fashion,  might  profit  by.  The 
precincts  of  an  old  residence  must  be  treated  by 
ecclesiasties  with  respect,  both  from  prudence 
and  necessity.  I  remember  being  much  pleased 
some  years  ago,  at  Rose  Castle,  the  rural  seat 
of  the  see  of  Carlisle,  with  a  style  of  garden 
and  architecture,  which,  if  the  place  had  be- 
longed to  a  wealthy  layman,  would  no  doubt 
have  been  swept  away.  A  parsonage-house 
generally  strmds  not  far  from  the  church  ;  this 
proximity  imposes  favourable  restraints,  and 
sometimes  suggests  an  affecting  union  of  the 
accommodations  and  elegances  of  life  with  the 
outward  signs  of  piety  and  mortality.  With 
pleasure  I  recall  to  mind  a  happy  instance  if 
this  in  the  residence  of  an  old  and  much-valued 
friend   in  Oxfordshire.     The  house  and  church 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


227 


Though  meek  and  patient  as  a  sheathed 

sword,  [a  wrong 

Though  pride's  least  lurking  thought  appear 

To  human  kind  ;   though  peace  be  on  his 

tongue, 
Gentleness  in  his  heart  ;  can  earth  afford 
Such  genuine  state,  pre-eminence  so  free, 
As  when,  arrayed  in  Christ's  authority, 
He  from  the  pulpit  lifts  his  awful  hand  ; 
Conjures,  implores,  and  labours  all  he  can 
For  re-subjecting  to  divine  command 
The  stubborn  spirit  of  rebellious  man  ? 


THE   LITURGY. 

Yes,  if  the  intensities  of  hope  and  fear 
Attract  us  still,  and  passionate  exercise 
Of  lofty  thoughts,  the  way  before  us  lies 
1  >istinct  with  signs— through  which,  in  fixed 

career, 
As  through  a  zodiac,  moves  the  ritual  year 
Of  England's   Church— stupendous    mys- 
teries ! 
Which  whoso  travels  in  her  bosom,  eyes 
As  he  approaches  them,  with  solemn  cheer. 
Enough  for  us  to  cast  a  transient  glance 
The  circle  through  ;  relinquishing  its  story 
For    those  whom   Heaven   hath   fitted   to 
advance,  [Glory— 

And,  harp  in  hand,  rehearse  the  King  of 
From  His  mild  advent  till  His  countenance 
Shall   dissipate   the   seas    and    mountains 
hoary. 


BAPTISM. 

Blest  be  the  Church,  that,  watching  o'er 

the  needs 
Of  infancy,  provides  a  timely  shower, 
W  hose  virtue  changes  to  a  Christian  flower 
The  sinful  product  of  a  bed  of  weeds  ! 
t  beneath  the  sacred  roof  proceeds 


stand  parallel  to  each  other,  at  a  small  distance  ; 
a  circular  lawn,  or  rather  grass-plot,  spreads 
between  them  ;  shrubs  and  trees  curve  from 
each  side  of  the  dwelling,  veiling,  but  not  hiding 
the  church.  From  the  front  of  this  dwelling,  no 
part  of  the  burial-ground  is  seen  ;  but,  as  you 
wind  by  the  side  of  the  shrubs  towards  the 
steeple  end  of  the  church,  the  eye  catches  a 
single,  small,  low,  monumental  head -stone, 
moss-grown,  sinking  into,  and  gently  inclining 
towards,  the  earth.  Advance,  and  the  church- 
yard, populous  and  gay  with  glittering  tomb- 
stones, opens  upon  the  view.  This  humble  and 
beautiful  parsonage  called  forth  a  tribute,  for 
which  see  "A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire,"  in 
Miscellaneous  Sonnets. 


The  ministration  ;  while  parental  love 
Looks    on,    and    grace    descendeth    from 

above  |pl«-;„i,. 

As    the  high   service    pledges   now,    now 
There,    should    vain    thoughts   outspread 

their  wings  and  fly 
To  meet  the  coming  hours  of  festal  mirth, 
The  tombs   which   hear  and  answer  that 

brief  cry, 
The  infant's  notice  of  his  second  birth, 
Recal  the  wandering  soul  to  sympathy 
With  what  man  hopes  from  Heaven,  yet 

fears  from  earth. 


CATECHISING. 

From  little  down  to  least— in  due  degree, 
Around  the  pastor,   each  in  new-wrought 

vest, 
Each  with  a  vernal  posy  at  his  breast, 
We  stood,  a  trembling,  earnest  company  I 
With  low  soft  murmur,  like  a  distant  bee, 
Some  spake,   by  thought-perplexing  fears 

betrayed  ; 
And  some  a  bold  unerring  answer  made  ; 
How  fluttered  then  thy  anxious  heart  for  me. 
Beloved  mother !     Thou  whose  happy  hand 
Had  bound  the  flowers  I  wore,  with  faith- 
ful tie :  [mand 
Sweet  flowers  !   at   whose  inaudible  com- 
Her  countenance,   phantom-like,   doth  re- 
appear : 
Oh,  lost  too  early  for  the  frequent  tear, 
And  ill  requited  by  this  heart-felt  sigh  ! 


CONFIRMATION. 

The  young-ones  gathered  in  from  hill  and 

dale, 
With  holiday  delight  on  every  brow  : 
'Tis  passed  away ;  far  other  thoughts  pre- 
vail ; 
For  they  are  taking  the  baptismal  vow 
Upon  their  conscious  selves  ;  their  own  lips 

speak 
The  solemn  promise.  Strongest  sinews  fail. 
And  many  a  blooming,  many  a  lovely  cheek 
Under  the  holy  fear  of  God  turns  pale, 
While  on  each  head  His  lawn-robed  servant 

lays 
An  apostolic  hand,  and  with  prayer  seals 
The  covenant.    The  Omnipotent  will  raise 
Their    feeble   souls ;    and    bear  with    his 
regrets,  [feels 

Who,  looking  round  the  fair  assemblage, 
That  ere  the  sun  goes  down  their  childhood 
sets. 


228 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


CONFIRMATION   CONTINUED. 

1  SAW  a  mother's  eye  intensely  bent 
Upon  a  maiden  trembling  as  she  knelt  ; 
In  and  for  whom  the  pious  mother  felt 
Things  that  we  judge  of  by  a  light  too  faint; 
Tell,  if  ye  may,  some  star-crowned  muse, 

or  saint  !  [relieved — 

Tell  what  rushed  in,   from  what  she  was 
Then,  when  her  child  the  hallowing  touch 

received, 
And  such  vibration  to  the  mother  went 
That  tears  burst  forth  amain.     Did  gleams 

appear  ? 
Opened  a  vision  of  that  blissful  place 
Where  dwells   a  sister-child  ?      And   was 

power  given 
Part  of  her  lost  one's  glory  back  to  trace 
Even  to  this  rite  ?     For  thus  she  knelt,  and, 

ere  [heaven. 

The  summer-leaf   had   faded,    passed    to 


SACRAMENT. 

By  chain  yet  stronger  must  the  soul  be  tied: 
One  duty  more,  last  stage  of  this  ascent, 
Brings  to  thy  food,  memorial  Sacrament! 
The  offspring,  haply  at  the  parents'  side: 
But  not  till  they,  with  all  that  do  abide 
In  heaven,  have  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  laud 
And  magnify  the  glorious  name  of  God, 
Fountain  of  Grace,  whose  Son  for  sinners 

died. 
Here  must  mysongin  timid  reverence  pause: 
But  shrink  not  ye  whom  to  the  saving  rite 
The  altar  calls  ;  come  early  under  laws 
That  can  secure  for  you  a  path  of  light 
Through   gloomiest   shade ;    put   on    (nor 

dread  its  weight) 
Armour  divine,  and  conquer  in  your  cause1 


RURAL   CEREMONY.* 

Content  with  calmer  scenes  around  us 

spread 
And  humbler  objects,  give  we  to  a  day 

f  annual  joy  one  tributary  lay; 
("his  day  when,  forth  by  rustic  music  led, 
The  village  children,  while  the  sky  is  red 
With  evening  lights,  advance  in  long  array 
Through  the  still  church-yard,  each  with 

garland  gay, 

*  This  is  still  continued  in  many  churches  in 
Westmorland.  It  takes  place  in  the  month  of 
July,  when  the  floor  of  the  stalls  is  strewn  with 
fresh  rushes  ;  and  hence  it  is  called  the  "  rush- 
Leaving." 


That,  carried  sceptre-like,  o'ertops  the  head 
Of  the  proud  bearer.     To  the  wide  church' 

door,  [fathers  bore 

Charged  with  these  offerings  which  their 
For  decoration  in  the  papal  time, 
The  innocent  procession  softly  moves  ; — 
The  spirit  of  Laud  is  pleased  in  heaven's 

pure  clime, 
And  Hooker's  voice  the  spectacle  approves  ! 


REGRETS. 

Would  that  our  scrupulous  sires  had  dared 

to  leave 
Less  scanty  measure  of  those  graceful  rites 
And  usages,  whose  due  return  invites 
A  stir  of  mind  too  natural  to  deceive; 
Giving  the  memory  help  when  she  would 

weave  [lights 

A  crown  for  hope  !   I   dread  the  boasted 
That  all  too  often  are  but  fiery  blights, 
Killing  the  bud  o'er  which  in  vain  we  grieve. 
Go,  seek  when  Christmas  snows  discomfort 

bring  [church 

The   counter  spirit,    found   in   some   gay 
Green  with  fresh  holly,  every  pew  a  perch 
In  which  the  linnet  or  the  thrush  might  sing, 
Merry    and    loud,    and    safe  from  prying 

search, 
Strains  offered  only  to  the  genial  spring. 


MUTABILITY. 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 
And  sinks  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 
Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not 
A  musical  but  melancholy  chime,  [fail ; 
Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with 

crime, 
Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 
Truth  fails  not  ;  but  her  outward  forms  that 

bear 
The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime, 
That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 
And  is  no  more  ;  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 
Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 
Its  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even 

sustain 
Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 
Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  time. 


old  abbeys. 


Monastic  domes  !  following  my  down- 
ward way,  [fall ! 
Untouched  by  due  regret  I  marked  your 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


229 


Now,  ruin,  beauty,  ancient  stillness,  all 
Dispose  to  judgments  temperate  as  we  lay 
On  our  past  selves  in  life's  declining  day  : 
For  as,  by  discipline  of  time  made  wise, 
We  learn  to  tolerate  the  infirmities 
And  faults  of  others,  gently  as  he  may 
Towards  our  own  the  mild  instructor  deals, 
Teaching  us  to  forget  them  or  forgive. ' 
Perversely  curious,  then  for  hidden  ill 
Why  should    we   break  time's  charitable 

seals  ? 
Once  ye  were  holy,  ye  are  holy  still ; 
Your  spirit  let  me  freely  drink  and  live  I 


EMIGRANT  FRENCH  CLERGY. 

Even  while  I  speak,  the  sacred   roofs  of 

France 
Are  shattered  into  dust ;  and  self-exiled 
From  altars  threatened,  levelled,  or  defiled, 
Wander  the  ministers  of  God,  as  chance 
Opens  a  way  for  life,  or  consonance 
Of  faith  invites.     More  welcome  to  no  land 
The  fugitives  than  to  the  British  strand, 
Where  priest  and  layman  with  the  vigilance 
Of  true  compassion  greet  them.    Creed  and 

test 
Vanish  before  the  unreserved  embrace 
Of  Catholic  humanity  : — distrest 
They  came, — and,  while  the  moral  tempest 

roars  [shores 

Throughout  the  country  they  have  left,  our 
Give  to  their  faith  a  dreadless  resting-place. 


CONGRATULATION. 

THUS  all  things  lead  to  charity — secured 
By  them  who  blessed  the  soft  and  happy 
gale  [sail, 

That  landward  urged  the  great  deliverer's 
Till  in  the  sunny  bay  his  fleet  was  moored  ! 
Propitious  hour!  had  we,  like  them,  endured 
Sore  stress  of  apprehension,  t  with  a  mind 
Sickened  by  injuries,   dreading  worse  de- 
signed, 
From  month  to  month  trembling  and  un- 
assured, 
How  had  we  then  rejoiced  !     But  we  have 
felt, 


As  a  loved  substance,  their  futurity  ; 
Good,  which  they  dared  not  hope  for,  we 
have  seen  ;  [is  dealt  ; 

A  state  whose  generous  will  through  earth 
A  state — which,  balancing  herself  between 
Licence  and  slavish  order,  dares  be  free. 


NEW   CHURCHES. 

But  liberty,  and  triumphs  on  the  main, 
And  laurelled  armies — not  to  be  withstood, 
What  serve  they  ?  if,  on  transitory  good 
Intent,   and  sedulous  of  abject  gain, 
The  state  (ah,  surely  not  preserved  in  vain  !) 
Forbear  to  shape  due  channels  which   the 

flood 
Of  sacred  truth  may  enter — till  it  brood 
O'er  the  wide  realm,  as  o'er  the  Egyptian 

plain 
The  all-sustaining  Nile.  No  more — the  time 
Is  conscious  of  her  want  ;  through  Eng- 
land's bounds, 
In  rival  haste,  the  wished-for  temples  rise  ! 
I  hear  their  Sabbath  bells'  harmonious 
chime  [sounds 

Float  on  the  breeze— the  heavenliest  of  all 
That  hill  or  vale  prolongs  or  multiplies  ! 


*  This  is  borrowed  from  an  affecting  passage 
in  Mr.  George  Dyer's  history  of  Cambridge. 

t  See  Burnet,  who  is  unusually  animated  on 
this  subject :  the  east  wind,  so  anxiously  ex- 
pected and  prayed  for,  was  called  the  "  Protes- 
tant wind." 


CHURCH   TO   BE   ERECTED. 

Be  this  the  chosen  site  ; — the  virgin  sod, 
Moistened  from  age  to  age  by  dewy  eve, 
Shall  disappear — and  grateful  earth  receive 
The  corner-stone  from  hands  that  build  to 

God.  [rod 

Yon  reverend  hawthorns,  hardened  to  the 
Of  winter  storms,  yet  budding  cheerfully  ; 
Those  forest  oaks  of  Druid  memory, 
Shall  long  survive,  to  shelter  the  abode 
Of  genuine  faith.     Where,  haply,  'mid  this 

band 
Of  daisies,  shepherds  sate  of  yore  and  wove 
May-garlands,  let  the  holy  altar  stand 
For  kneeling  adoration  ;  while — above, 
Broods,  visibly  portrayed,  the  mystic  Dove 
That  shall  protect  from  blasphemy  the  land. 


CONTINUED. 

Mine  ear  has  rung,  my  spirit  sunk  sub- 
dued, 

Sharing  the  strong  emotion  of  the  crowd. 

When  each  pale  brow  to  dread  hosannas 
bowed  [the  rood, 

While  clouds  of  incense  mounting  veiled 


230 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


That  gli  mmered  like  a  pine-tree  dimly  viewed 
Through  Alpine  vapours.     Such  appalling 

rite  [might 

Our  Church  prepares  not,  trusting  to  the 
Of  simple  truth  with  grace  divine  imbued  ; 
Yet  will  we  not  conceal  the  precious  cross, 
Like  men  ashamed  :*  the  sun  with  his  first 

smile  [pile  I 

Shall  greet  that  symbol  crowning  the  low 
And  the  fresh  air  of  ' '  incense-breathing 

morn  " 
Shall  wooingly  embrace  it ;  and  green  moss 
Creep   round  its  arms   through  centuries 

unborn. 


NEW   CHURCH-YARD. 

The  encircling  ground,  in  native  turf  ar- 
rayed, 
Is  now  by  solemn  consecration  given 
To  social  interests,  and  to  favouring  heaven; 
And  where  the  rugged  colts  their  gambols 
played,  [glade, 

And  wild  deer  bounded  through  the  forest 
Unchecked  as  when  by  merry  outlaw  driven, 
Shall  hymns  of  praise  resound  at  morn  and 

even  ; 
And  so,  full  soon,  the  lonely  sexton's  spade 
Shall  wound  the  tender  sod.     Encincture 

small, 
But  infinite  its  grasp  of  joy  and  woe  ! 
Hopes,    fears,    in   never-ending  ebb  and 
flow—  [dust"— 

The  spousal  trembling — and  the  "  dust  to 
The  prayers,  the  contrite  struggle,  and  the 
trust  [all ! 

That  to  the  Almighty  Father  looks  through 


CATHEDRALS,    ETC. 

Open  your  gates,  ye  everlasting  piles  ! 
Types  of  the  spiritual  Church  which  God 

hath  reared  ; 
Not  loth  we  quit  the  newly-hallowed  sward 
And  humble  altar,  'mid   your  sumptuous 

aisles 
To  kneel— or  thrid  your  intricate  defiles — 
Or  down  the  nave  to  pace  in  motion  slow  ; 
Watching,  with  upward  eye,  the  tall  tower 

grow 
And  mount,  at  every  step,  with  living  wiles 
Instinct — to  rouse  the  heart  andlead  thewill 


*  The  Lutherans  have  retained  the  cross 
within  their  churches  ;  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
we  have  not  done  the  same. 


By  a  bright  ladder  to  the  world  above. 
Open  your  gates,  ye  monuments  of  love 
Divine  !  thou,  Lincoln,  on  thy  sovereign  hill! 
Thou,  stately  York  !  and  ye,  whose  splen- 
dours cheer 
Isis  and  Cam,  to  patient  science  dear  ! 


INSIDE   OF   KING'S   COLLEGE   CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-matched  aims  the  architect  who 

planned, 
Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  scholars  only,  this  immense 
And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 
Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects 

the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  ; 
So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the 

sense  [roof 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching 
Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand 

cells,  [dwells 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music 
Lingering— and  wanderingon  as  loth  to  die; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yield- 

eth  proof 
That  they  were  bom  for  immortality. 


What  awful  perspective !  while  from  our 
sight  [hide 

With  gradual  stealth  the  lateral  windows 
Their  portraitures,  their  stone-work  glim- 
mers, dyed 
In  the  soft  chequerings  of  a  sleepy  light. 
Martyr,  or  king,  or  sainted  eremite, 
Whoe'er  ye  be,  that  thus — yourselves  un- 
seen— 
Imbue  your  prison-bars  with  solemn  sheen, 
Shine  on  !  until  ye  fade  with  coming  night ! 
But,  from  the  arms  of  silence — list !  oh,  list ! 
The  music  bursteth  into  second  life  ; — 
The  notes  luxuriate — every  stone  is  kissed 
By  sound,  or  ghost  of  sound,  in  mazy  strife; 
Heart-thrilling  strains,  that  cast  before  the 
Of  the  devout  a  veil  of  ecstasy  !  [eye 


CONTINUED. 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
Who  thus  could  build.     Be  mine,  in  hours 

of  fear 
Or  grovelling  thought,  to  seek  a  refuge  here, 


ECCLESIASTICA  I,  8  KE  T(  '11 E8. 


231 


Or  through  the  aisles  of  Westminster  to 

roam  ;  [foam 

Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly's  dancing 
Melts,  if  it  cross  the  threshold  ;  where  the 

wreath  [path 

Of  awe-struck  wisdom  droops  :  or  let  my 
Lead  to  that  younger  pile,  whose  sky-like 

dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity's  embrace  ;  whose  guardian  crest, 
The  silent   cross,  among   the   stars   shall 

spread 
As  now,  when  she  hath  a  ho  seen  her  breast 
Filled  with  mementos,  satiate  with  its  part 
Of  grateful  England's  overflowing  dead. 


EJACULATION. 

Glory  to  God !  and  to  the  Power  who 

came 
In  filial  duty,  clothed  with  love  divine  ; 
That  made  His  human  tabernacle  shine 
Like  ocean  burning  with  purpureal  flame  ; 
Or  like  the  Alpine  mount,  that  takes  its 

name  [and  even, 

From  roseate  hues,*  far  kenned  at  morn 
in  hours  of  peace,  or  when  the  storm  is 

driven 


*  Some  say  that  Monte  Rosa  takes  its  name 
from  a  belt  of  rock  at  its  summit — a  very  un- 
poetical,  and  scarcely  a  probable  supposition. 


Along  the  nether  region's  rugged  frame  ! 
Earth  prompts — Heaven  urges  ;  let  us  seek 

the  light 
Studious  of  that  pure  intercourse  begun 
When  first  our  infant  brows  their  lustre 

won  ;  [bright 

So,  like  the  mountain,  may  we  grow  more 
From  unimpeded  commerce  with  the  sun, 
At  the  approach  of  all-involving  night. 


CONCLUSION. 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a  snake  enrolled 
Coil  within  coil,  at  noon-tide?     For  the 
Word  [plored, 

Yields,  if  with  unpresumptuous   faith  ex- 
Power  at  whose  touch  the  sluggard  shall 
unfold,  [behold, 

His  drowsy  rings.   Look  forth  !  that  stream 
That  stream  upon  whose  bosom  we  have 

passed 
Floating  at  ease  while  nations  have  effaced 
Nations,  and  death  hasgafhered  to  his  fold 
Long  lines  of  mighty   kings — look   forth, 

my  soul ! 
(Nor  in  this  vision  be  thou  slow  to  trust) 
The  living  waters,  less  and  less  by  guilt 
Stained  and  polluted,  brighten  as  they  roll, 
Till  they  have  reached  the  eternal  city- 
built 
For  the  perfected  spirits  of  the  just ! 


232 


%  Wtyxtz  §at  of  gijlstone;1 

OR, 

THE    FATE    OF    THE    NORTONS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

During  the  Summerof  1807,  theauthor  visited,  for  the  first  time,  the  beautiful  scenery  that  sur- 
rounds  Bolton  Priory,  in  Yorkshire  ;  and  the  poem  of  the  White  Doe,  founded  upon  a  tradition 
connected  with  the  place,  was  composed  at  the  close  of  the  same  year. 


In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay, 
And,  Mary  !  oft  beside  our  blazing  fire, 
When  years  of  wedded  life  were  as  a  day 
Whose  current  answers  to  the  heart's  desire, 
Did  we  together  read  in  Spenser's  lay, 
How  Una,  sad  of  soul — in  sad  attire, 
The  gentle  Una,  born  of  heavenly  birth, 
To  seek  her  knight  went  wandering  o'er 
the  earth. 

Ah,  then,  beloved  !  pleasing  was  the  smart, 
And  the  tear  precious  in  compassion  shed 
For  her,  who,  pierced  by  sorrow's  thrilling 

dart, 
Did  meekly  bear  the  pang  unmerited  ; 
Meek  as  that  emblem  of  her  lowly  heart 
The  milk-white  lamb  which  in  a  line  she 

led  — 
And  faithful,  loyal  in  her  innocence, 
Like  the  brave  lion  slain  in  her  defence. 

Notes  could  we  hear  as  of  a  faery  shell 
Attuned   to  words    with    sacred    wisdom 

fraught  ; 
Free  fancy  prized  each  specious  miracle, 
And  all  its  finer  inspiration  caught  ; 
Till,  in  the  bosom  of  our  rustic  cell, 
We  by  a  lamentable  change  were  taught 
That   "  bliss  with   mortal   man   may  not 

abide  :" — 
How  nearly  joy  and  sorrow  are  allied  ! 

For  us  the  stream  of  fiction  ceased  to  flow, 
For  us  the  voice  of  melody  was  mute. 
But,  as  soft  gales  dissolve  the  dreary  snow, 
And  give  the  timid  herbage  leave  to  shoot, 


See  Notes  at  end  of  poem,  page  251. 


Heaven's  breathing  influence  failed  not  to 

bestow 
A  timely  promise  of  unlooked-for  fruit, 
Fair  fruit  of  pleasure  and  serene  content 
From  blossoms  wild  of  fancies  innocent. 

It  soothed  us — it  beguiled  us — then,  to  hear 
Once  more  of  troubles  wrought  by  magic 
spell ;  [near 

And  griefs  whose  aery  motion  comes  not 
The  pangs  that  tempt  the  spirit  to  rebel ; 
Then,  with  mild  Una  in  her  sober  cheer, 
High  over  hill  and  low  adown  the  dell 
Again  we  wandered,  willing  to  partake 
All  that  she  suffered  for  her  dear  lord's  sake. 

Then,  too,  this  song  of  mine  once  more 
could  please,  [less  sleep, 

Where  anguish,  strange  as  dreams  of  rest- 
Is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies 
Aloft  ascending,  and  descending  deep, 
Even  to  the  inferior  kinds  ;  whom  forest 
trees  [sweep 

Protect  from  beating  sunbeams,  and  the 
Of  the  sharp  winds  ; — fair  creatures  ! — to 

whom  Heaven 
A  calm  and  sinless  life,  with  love,  hath  given. 

This  tragic  story  cheered  us  :  for  it  speaks 
Of  female  patience  winning  firm  repose  ; 
And  of  the  recompense  which  conscience 

seeks 
A  bright,  encouraging  example  shows; 
Needful  when  o'er  wide  realms  the  tempest 

breaks, 
Needful  amid  life's  ordinary  woes  ; 
Hence,  not  for  them  unfitted  who  would 

bless 
A  happy  hour  with  "holier  happiness. 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


233 


He  serves  the  muses  erringly  and  ill, 
Whose  aim  is  pleasure  light,  and  fugitive  : 
Oh,  that  my  mind  were  equal  to  fulfil 
The  comprehensive   mandate  which  they 

give- 
Vain  aspiration  of  an  earnest  will  ! 
Yet  in  this  moral  strain  a  power  may  live, 
Beloved  wife  !  such  solace  to  impart 
As  it  hath  yielded  to  thy  tender  heart, 

Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland, 
April  2o,  1815. 


CANTO  I. 

"They  th.it  deny  a  God,  destroy  man's  nobility  ; 
for  certainly  man  is  of  kinn  to  the  beasts  by 
his  body  :  and  if  he  be  not  of  kinn  to  God  by 
his  spirit,  he  is  a  base  ignoble  creature.  It 
destroys  likewise  magnanimity,  and  the  rais- 
ing of  humane  nature  :  for  take  an  example 
of  a  dogg,  and  mark  what  a  generosity  and 
courage  he  will  pi>t  on,  when  he  finds  himself 
maintained  by  a  man,  who  to  him  is  instead  of 
a  God,  or  melior  natura.  Which  courage  is 
manifestly  such,  as  that  creature  without  that 
confidence  of  a  better  nature  than  his  own 
could  never  attain.  So  man,  when  he  resteth 
and  assureth  himself  upon  Divine  protection 
and  favour,  gathereth  a  force  and  faith  which 
human  nature  in  itself  could  not  obtain." — 
Lord  Bacon. 

From  Bolton's  old  monastic  tower(2) 
The  bells  ring  loud  with  gladsome  power  ; 
The  sun  is  bright ;  the  fields  are  gay 
With  people  in  their  best  array 
Of  stole  and  doublet,  hood  and  scarf, 
Along  the  banks  of  crystal  Wharf, 
Through  the  vale  retired  and  lowly, 
Trooping  to  that  summons  holy. 
And,  up  among  the  moorlands,  see 
What  sprinklings  of  blithe  company  ! 
Of  lasses  and  of  shepherd  grooms, 
That  down  the  steep  hills  force  their  way, 
Like  cattle  through  the  budded  brooms  ; 
Path,  or  no  path,  what  care  they? 
And  thus  in  joyous  mood  they  hie 
To  Bolton's  mouldering  Priory. 

What  would  they  there  ? — Full  fifty  years 
That  sumptuous  pile,  with  all  its  peers, 
Too  harshly  hath  been  doomed  to  taste 
The  bitterness  of  wrong  and  waste  : 
Its  courts  are  ravaged  ;  but  the  tower 
Is  standing  with  a  voice  of  power, 
That  ancient  voice  which  wont  to  caL' 
To  mass  or  some  high  festival  ; 
And  in  the  shattered  fabric's  heart 
Remaineth  one  protected  part  ; 


A  rural  chapel,  neatly  drest,(3) 

In  covert  like  a  little  nest ; 

And  thither  old  and  young  repair, 

This  Sabbath-day,  for  praise  and  prayer. 

Fast  the  church-yard  fills  ; — anon 
Look  again,  and  they  all  are  gone  ; 
The  cluster  round  the  porch,  and  the  folk 
Who  sate   in   the    shade    of   the   Prior's 

Oak.  (4) 
And  scarcely  have  they  disappeared 
Ere  the  prelusive  hymn  is  heard  : — 
With  one  consent  the  people  rejoice, 
Filling  the  church  with  a  lofty  voice  ! 
They  sing  a  service  which  they  feel : 
For  'tis  the  suri-rise  now  of  zeal, 
And  faith  and  hope  are  in  their  prime, 
In  great  Eliza's  golden  time. 

A  moment  ends  the  fervent  din, 
And  all  is  hushed,  without  and  within  ; 
For  though  the  priest,  more  tranquilly, 
Recites  the  holy  liturgy, 
The  only  voice  which  you  can  hear 
Is  the  river  murmuring  near. 
When  soft  ! — the  dusky  trees  between, 
And  down  the  path  through  the  open  green, 
Where  is  no  living  thing  to  be  seen  ; 
And  through  yon  gateway,  where  is  found. 
Beneath  the  arch  with  ivy  bound, 
Free  entrance  to  the  church-yard  ground  ; 
And  right  across  the  verdant  sod 
Towards  the  very  house  of  God  ; — 
Comes  gliding  in  with  lovely  gleam, 
Comes  gliding  in  serene  and  slow, 
Soft  and  silent  as  a  dream, 
A  solitary  doe  ! 
White  she  is  as  lily  of  June, 
And  beauteous  as  the  silver  moon 
When  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  driven, 
And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven  ; 
Or  like  a  ship  some  gentle  day 
In  sunshine  sailing  far  away, 
A  glittering  ship,  that  hath  the  plain 
Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain. 

Lie  silent  in  your  graves,  ye  dead  ! 
Lie  quiet  in  your  church-yard  bed  ! 
Ye  living,  tend  your  holy  cares  ; 
Ye  multitude,  pursue  your  prayers  ; 
And  blame  not  me  if  my  heart  and  sight 
Are  occupied  with  one  delight  ! 
'Tis  a  work  for  Sabbath  hours 
If  I  with  this  bright  creature  go, 
Whether  she  be  of  forest  bowers, 
From  the  bowers  of  earth  below  ; 
Or  a  spirit,  for  one  day  given, 
A  gift  of  grace  from  purest  heaven. 


23-t 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE  ;  OB, 


What  harmonious  pensive  changes 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranges 
Round  and  through  this  pile  of  state, 
Overthrown  and  desolate  ! 
Now  a  step  or  two  her  way 
Is  through  space  of  open  day, 
Where  the  enamoured  sunny  light 
Brightens  her  that  was  so  bright ; 
Now  doth  a  delicate  shadow  fall. 
Falls  upon  her  like  a  breath, 
From  some  lofty  arch  or  wall, 
As  she  passes  underneath  : 
Now  some  gloomy  nook  partakes 
Of  the  glory  that  she  makes, — 
High-ribbed  vault  of  stone,  or  cell 
With  perfect  cunning  framed  as  well 
Of  stone,  and  ivy,  and  the  spread 
Of  the  elder's  bushy  head  ; 
Some  jealous  and  forbidding  cell, 
That  doth  the  living  stars  repel, 
And  where  no  flower  hath  leave  to  dwell. 


The  presence  of  this  wandering  doe 
Fills  many  a  damp  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a  saintly  show  ; 
And,  re-appearing,  she  no  less 
To  the  open  day  gives  blessedness. 
But  say,  among  these  holy  places, 
Which  thus  assiduously  she  paces, 
Comes  she  with  a  votary's  task, 
Rite  to  perform,  or  boon  to  ask? 
Fair  pilgrim  !  harbours  she  a  sense 
Of  sorrow,  or  of  reverence  ? 
Can  she  be  grieved  for  quire  or  shrine, 
Crushed  as  if  by  wrath  divine  ? 
For  what  survives  of  house  where  God 
Was  worshipped,  or  where  man  abode  ; 
For  old  magnificence  undone  ; 
Or  for  the  gentler  work  begun 
By  nature,  softening  and  concealing, 
And  busy  with  a  hand  of  healing,— 
For  altar,  whence  the  cross  was  rent, 
Now  rich  with  mossy  ornament, 
Or  dormitory's  length  laid  bare, 
Where  the  wild  rose  blossoms  fair  ; 
And  sapling  ash,  whose  place  of  birth 
Is  that  lordly  chamber's  hearth? 
She  sees  a  warrior  carved  in  stone, 
Among  the  thick  weeds,  stretched  alone  ; 
A  warrior,  with  his  shield  af  pride 
Cleaving  humbly  to  his  side, 
And  hands  in  resignation  prest, 
Palm  to  palm,  on  his  tranquil  breast : 
Methinks  she  passeth  by  the  sight, 
As  a  common  creature  might  : 
If  she  be  doomed  to  inward  cay 
Or  service,  it  must  lie  elsewhere. 


But  hers  are  eyes  serenely  bright, 
And  on  she  moves— with  pace  how  light  ? 
Nor  spares  to  stoop  her  head,  and  taste 
The  dewy  turf  with  flowers  bestrown  ; 
And  thus  she  fares,  until  at  last 
Beside  the  ridge  of  a  grassy  grave 
In  quietness  she  lays  her  down  ; 
Gently  as  a  weary  wave 
Sinks,  when  the  summer  breeze  hath  died, 
Against  an  anchored  vessel's  side  ; 
Even  so,  without  distress,  doth  she 
Lie  down  in  peace,  and  lovingly. 

The  day  is  placid  in  its  going, 
To  a  lingering  motion  bound, 
Like  the  river  in  its  flowing — 
Can  there  be  a  softer  sound? 
So  the  balmy  minutes  pass, 
While  this  radiant  creature  lies 
Couched  upon  the  dewy  grass, 
Pensively  with  downcast  eyes. 
When  now  again  the  people  rear 
A  voice  of  praise,  with  awful  cheer  ! 
It  is  the  last,  the  parting  song  ; 
And  from  the  temple  forth  they  throng — 
And  quickly  spread  themselves  abroad — 
While  each  pursues  his  several  road. 
But  some,  a  variegated  band, 
Of  middle-aged,  and  old,  and  young, 
And  little  children  by  the  hand 
Upon  their  leading  mothers  hung, 
Turn,  with  obeisance  gladly  paid, 
Towards  the  spot,  where,  full  in  view, 
The  lovely  doe  of  whitest  hue, 
Her  Sabbath  couch  has  made. 

It  was  a  solitary  mound  ; 
Which  two  spears'  length  of  level  ground 
Did  from  all  other  graves  divide  : 
As  if  in  some  respect  of  pride  ; 
Or  melancholy's  sickly  mood, 
Still  shy  of  human  neighbourhood  ; 
Or  guilt,  that  humbly  would  express 
A  penitential  loneliness. 

' '  Look,  there  she  is,  my  child !  draw  near; 
She  fears  not,  wherefore  should  we  fear? 
She  means  no  harm  ;" — but  still  the  boy, 
To  whom  the  words  were  softly  said, 
Hung  back,  and  smiled  and  blushed  for  joy, 
A  shame-faced  blush  of  glowing  red ! 
Again  the  mother  whispered  low, 
"  Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  doe; 
From  Rylstone  she  hath  found  her  way 
Over  the  hills  this  Sabbath-day; 
Her  work,  whate'er  it  be,  is  done, 
And  she  will  depart  when  we  are  gone ; 


77/ A'  VATE  OF  77/7?  NOR'l'ONfl. 


935 


Thus  doth  she  keep  from  year  to  year, 
Her  Sabbath  morning,  foul  or  fair." 

This  whisper  soft  repeats  what  he 
Had  known  from  early  infancy. 
Bright  is  the  creature — as  in  dreams 
The  boy  had  seen  her — yea,  more  bright  ; 
But  is  she  truly  what  she  seems  ? 
He  asks  with  insecure  delight, 
Asks  of  himself — and  doubts — and  still 
The  doubt  returns  against  his  will  : 
Though  he,  and  all  the  standcrs  by, 
Could  tell  a  tragic  history 
Of  facts  divulged,  wherein  appear 
Substantial  motive,  reason  clear, 
Why  thus  the  milk-white  doe  is  found 
Couchant  beside  that  lonely  mound  ; 
And  why  she  duly  loves  to  pace 
The  circuit  of  this  hallowed  place. 
Nor  to  the  child's  inquiring  mind 
Is  such  perplexity  confined  : 
For,  spite  of  sober  truth,  that  sees 
A  world  of  fixed  remembrances 
Which  to  this  mystery  belong, 
If,  undeceived,  my  skill  can  trace 
The  characters  of  every  face, 
There  lack  not  strange  delusion  here, 
Conjecture  vague,  and  idle  fear, 
And  superstitious  fancies  strong, 
Which  do  the  gentle  creature  wrong. 

That  bearded,  staff-supported  sire, 
(Who  in  his  youth  hath  often  fed 
Full  cheerily  on  convent-bread, 
And  heard  old  tales  by  the  convent-fire, 
And  lately  hath  brought  home  the  scars 
Gathered  in  long  and  distant  wars) 
That  old  man — studious  to  expound 
The  spectacle— hath  mounted  high 
To  days  of  dim  antiquity; 
When  Lady  Aaliza  mourned(5) 
Her  son,  and  felt  in  her  despair, 
The  pang  of  unavailing  prayer  ; 
Her  son  in  Wharf's  abysses  drowned, 
The  noble  boy  of  Egremound. 
l-'rom  which  affliction,  when  God's  grace 
At  length  had  in  her  heart  found  place, 
A  pious  structure,  fair  to  see, 
Rose  up — this  stately  priory  ! 
The  lady's  work, — but  now  laid  low  ;     [go 
To  the  grief  of  her  soul  that  doth  come  and 
In  the  beautiful  form  of  this  innocent  doe  : 
Which,   though  seemingly  doomed  in  its 

breast  to  sustain 
A  softened  remembrance  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
Is  spotless,  and  holy,  and  gentle,  and  bright ; 
And  glides  o'er  the  earth  like  an  angel  of 

light. 


Pass,  pass  who  will,  yon  chantry  door  ;(6) 
And,  through  the  chink  in  the  fractured  floor 
Look  down,  and  see  a  griesly  sight ; 
A  vault  where  the  bodies  are  buried  upright  J 
There,  face  by  face   and  hand  by  hand, 
The  Claphams  ana  Mauleverers  stand  ; 
And,  in  his  place,  among  son  and  sire, 
Is  John  de  Clapham,  that  fierce  esquire, 
A  valiant  man,  and  a  name  of  dread, 
In  the  ruthless  wars  of  the  White  and  Red  ; 
Who  dragged  Earl  Pembroke  from  Banbury 
church,  [the  porch  ! 

And  smote  off  his  head  on  the  stones  of 
Look  down  among  them,  if  you  dare  ; 
Oft  does  the  White  Doe  loiter  there, 
Prying  into  the  darksome  rent ; 
Nor  can  it  be  with  good  intent ; — 
So  thinks  that  dame  of  haughty  air, 
Who  hath  a  page  her  book  to  hold, 
And  wears  a  frontlet  edged  with  gold. 
Well  may  her  thoughts  be  harsh  :  for  she 
Numbers  among  her  ancestry 
Earl  Pembroke,  slain  so  impiously  ! 

That  slender  youth,  a  scholar  pale, 
From  Oxford  come  to  his  native  vale, 
He  also  hath  his  own  conceit : 
It  is,  thinks  he,  the  gracious  fairy, 
Who  loved  the  Shepherd  Lord  to  meet(7) 
In  his  wanderings  solitary: 
Wild  notes  she  in  his  hearing  sang, 
A  song  of  nature's  hidden  powers  ; 
That  whistled  like  the  wind,  and  rang 
Among  the  rocks  and  holly  bovvers. 
Twas  said  that  she  all  shapes  could  wear  ; 
And  oftentimes  before  him  stood. 
Amid  the  trees  of  some  thick  wood, 
In  semblance  of  a  lady  fair  ; 
And  taught  him  signs,  and  showed  him 

sights, 
In  Craven's  dens,  on  Cumbrian  heights  ; 
When  under  cloud  of  fear  he  lay, 
A  shepherd  clad  in  homely  gray, 
Nor  left  him  at  his  later  day. 
And  hence,  when  he,  with  spear  and  shield 
Rode  full  of  years  to  Flodden  field, 
His  eye  could  see  the  hidden  spring, 
And  how  the  current  was  to  flow  ; 
The  fatal  end  of  Scotland's  king, 
And  all  that  hopeless  overthrow. 
Put  not  in  wars  did  he  delight, 
This  Clifford  wished  for  worthier  might : 
Nor  in  broad  pomp,  or  courtly  state  : 
Him  his  own  thoughts  did  elevate, — 
Most  happy  in  the  shy  recess 
Of  Barden's  humble  quietness. 
And  choice  of  studious  friends  had  he 
Of  Bolton's  dear  fraternity; 


Sfl6 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE ;  OR, 


Who,  standing  on  this  old  church  tower, 
In  many  a  calm  propitious  hour, 
Perused,  with  him,  the  starry  sky  ; 
Or,  in  their  cells,  with  him  did  pry 
For  other  lore, — through  strong  desire 
Searching  the  earth  with  chemic  fire  : 
But  they  and  their  good  works  are  fled — 
And  all  is  now  disquieted — 
And  peace  is  none,  for  living  or  dead  ! 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  think  not  so, 
But  look  again  at  the  radiant  doe  ! 
What  quiet  watch  she  seems  to  keep, 
Alone,  beside  that  grassy  heap  ! 

Why  mention  other  thoughts  unmeet 
For  vision  so  composed  and  sweet  ? 
While  stand  the  people  in  a  ring, 
Gazing,  doubting,  questioning  ; 
Yea,  many  overcome  in  spite 
Of  recollections  clear  and  bright  ; 
Which  yet  do  unto  some  impart 
An  undisturbed  repose  of  heart, 
And  all  the  assembly  own  a  law 
Of  orderly  respect  and  awe  ; 
But  see — they  vanish,  one  by  one. 
And  last,  the  doe  herself  is  gone. 

Harp  !  we  have  been  full  long  beguiled 
By  busy  dreams,  and  fancies  wild  ; 
To  which,  with  no  reluctant  strings, 
Thou  hast  attuned  thy  murmurings  ; 
And  now  before  this  pile  we  stand 
In  solitude,  and  utter  peace  ; 
But,  harp  !  thy  murmurs  may  not  cease — 
Thou  hast  breeze-like  visitings  ; 
For  a  spirit  with  angel's  wings 
Hath  touched  thee,  and  a  spirit's  hand  : 
A  voice  is  with  us— a  command 
To  chant,  in  strains  of  heavenly  glory, 
A  tale  of  tears,  a  mortal  story. 


CANTO  II. 

The  harp  in  lowliness  obeyed  ; 

And  first  we  sang  of  the  green-wood  shade, 

And  a  solitary  maid  ; 

Beginning,  where  the  song  must  end, 

With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  friend  ; 

Her  friend  who  stood  before  her  sight, 

Her  only  unextinguished  light  ; 

The  last  companion  in  a  dearth 

Of  love,  upon  a  hopeless  earth. 

For  she  it  was — this  maid,  who  wrought 
Meekly,  with  foreboding  thought, 
Ir.  vermeil  colours  and  in  gold 


An  unblest  work  ;  which,  standing  by. 
Her  father  did  with  joy  behold, — 
Exulting  in  the  imagery  ; 
A  banner,  one  that  did  fulfil 
Too  perfectly  his  headstrong  will : 
For  on  this  banner  had  her  hand 
Embroidered  (such  was  the  command) 
The  sacred  cross  ;  and  figured  there 
The  five  dear  wounds  our  Lord  did  bear  ; 
Full  soon  to  be  uplifted  high, 
And  float  in  rueful  company  ! 

It  was  the  time  when  England's  queen 
Twelve    years  had   reigned,    a   sovereign 

dread  ; 
Nor  yet  the  restless  crown  had  been 
Disturbed  upon  her  virgin  head  ; 
But  now  the  inly-working  north 
Was  ripe  to  send  its  thousands  forth, 
A  potent  vassalage,  to  fight 
In  Percy's  and  in  Neville's  right, 
Two  earls  fast  leagued  in  discontent, 
Who  gave  their  wishes  open  vent  ; 
And  boldly  urged  a  general  plea, 
The  rites  of  ancient  piety 
To  be  triumphantly  restored, 
By  the  dread  justice  of  the  sword  ! 
And  that  same  banner,  on  whose  breast 
The  blameless  lady  had  exprest 
Memorials  chosen  to  give  life 
And  sunshine  to  a  dangerous  strife  ; 
That  banner,  waiting  for  the  call, 
Stood  quietly  in  Rylstone  Hall. 

It  came, — and  Francis  Norton  said, 
' '  O  father  !  rise  not  in  this  fray — 
The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head  ; 
Dear  father,  hear  me  when  I  say 
It  is  for  you  too  late  a  day  ! 
Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name  : 
A  just  and  gracious  queen  have  we, 
A  pure  religion,  and  the  claim 
Of  peace  on  our  humanity. 
'Tis  meet  that  I  endure  your  scorn, — 
I  am  your  son,  your  eldest  born  ; 
But  not  for  lordship  or  for  land, 
My  father,  do  I  clasp  your  knees — 
The  banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand,— 
This  multitude  of  men  disband, 
And  live  at  home  in  blameless  ease  ; 
For  these  my  brethren's  sake,  for  me  ; 
And,  most  of  all,  fer  Emily  !" 

Loud  noise  was  in  the  crowded  hall, 
And  scarcely  could  the  father  hear 
That  name — which  had  a  dying  fall, 
The  name  of  his  onlv  daughter  dear, — 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


237 


And  on  tlie  banner  which  stood  near 
He  glanced  a  look  of  holy  pride, 
And  his  moist  eyes  were  glorified  ; 
Then  seized  the  staff,  and  thus  did  say — 
"  Thou,  Richard,  bear'st  thy  father's  name, 
Keep  thou  this  ensign  till  the  day 
When  I  of  thee  require  the  same  : 
Thy  place  be  on  my  better  hand  ; — 
And  seven  as  true  as  thou,  I  see, 
Will  cleave  to  this  good  cause  and  me." 
He  spake,  and  eight  brave  sons  straightway 
All  followed  him,  a  gallant  band ! 

Forth  when  sire  and  sons  appeared 
A  gratulating  shout  was  reared, 
With  din  of  arms  and  minstrelsy, 
From  all  his  warlike  tenantry, 
All  horsed  and  harnessed  with  him  to  ride  ; 
A  shout  to  which  the  hills  replied  ! 

But  Francis,  in  the  vacant  hall, 
Stood  silent  under  dreary  weight, — 
A  phantasm,  in  which  roof  and  wall 
Shook — tottered — swam  before  his  sight  ; 
A  phantasm  like  a  dream  of  night  ! 
Thus  overwhelmed,  and  desolate, 
He  found  his  way  to  a  postern-gate  ; 
And,  when  he  walked  at  length,  his  eye 
Was  on  the  calm  and  silent  sky  ; 
With  air  about  him  breathing  sweet, 
And  earth's  green  grass  beneath  his  feet  ; 
Nor  did  he  fail  ere  long  to  hear 
A  sound  of  military  cheer, 
Faint — but  it  reached  that  sheltered  spot  ; 
He  heard,  and  it  disturbed  him  not. 

There  stood  he,  leaning  on  a  lance 
Which  he  had  grasped  unknowingly, — 
Had  blindly  grasped  in  that  strong  trance, 
That  dimness  of  heart  agony  ; 
There  stood  he,  cleansed  from  the  despair 
And  sorrow  of  his  fruitless  prayer. 
The  past  he  calmly  hath  reviewed  : 
But  where  will  be  the  fortitude 
Of  this  brave  man,  when  he  shall  see 
That  form  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
And  know  that  it  is  Emily? 
Oh  !  hide  them  from  each  other,  hide, 
Kind  Heaven,  this  pair  severely  tried  ! 

He  saw  her  where  in  open  view 
She  sate  beneath  the  spreading  yew, — 
Her  head  upon  her  lap,  concealing 
In  solitude  her  bitter  feeling  ; 
How  could  he  choose  but  shrink  or  sigh  ? 
He  shrunk,  and  muttered  inwardly, 
"  Might  ever  son  command  a  sire, 
The  act  were  justified  to-day.' 


This  to  himself — and  to  the  maid, 
Whom  now  he  had  approached,  he  said, 
"  Gone  are  they, — they  have  their  desire  ; 
And  I  with  thee  one  hour  will  stay, 
To  give  thee  comfort  if  I  may." 

He  paused,  her  silence  to  partake, 
And  long  it  was  before  he  spake  :    [round, 
Then,   all  at    once,   his  thoughts  turned 
And  fervent  words  a  passage  found. 

"Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misled  ; 
With  a  dear  father  at  their  head  1 
The  sons  obey  a  natural  lord  ; 
The  father  had  given  solemn  word 
To  noble  Percy, — and  a  force, 
Still  stronger,  bends  him  to  his  course. 
This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall 
As  at  an  innocent  funeral. 
In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 
This  sympathy  of  sire  and  sons  ; 
Untried  our  brothers  were  beloved, 
And  now  their  faithfulness  is  proved  ; 
For  faithful  we  must  call  them,  6earing 
That  soul  of  conscientious  daring. 
There  were  they  all  in  circle — there 
Stood  Richard,  Ambrose,  Christopher, 
John  with  a  sword  that  will  not  fail, 
And  Marmaduke  in  fearless  mail, 
And  those  bright  twins  were  side  by  side  ; 
And  there  by  fresh  hopes  beautified, 
Stood  he,  whose  arm  yet  lacks  the  power 
Of  man,  our  youngest,  fairest  flower  ! 
I,  by  the  right  of  eldest  born, 
And  in  a  second  father's  place, 
Presumed  to  grapple  with  their  scorn, 
And  meet  their  pity  face  to  face  ; 
Yea,  trusting  in  God's  holy  aid, 
I  to  my  father  knelt  and  prayed, 
And  one,  the  pensive  Marmaduke, 
Methought,  was  yielding  inwardly, 
And  would  have  laid  his  purpose  by, 
But  for  a  glance  of  his  father's  eye, 
Which  I  myself  could  scarcely  brook 

"Then,  be  we,  each,  and  all,  forgiven  i 
Thee,  chiefly  thee,  my  sister  dear, 
Whose  pangs  are  registered  in  heaven. 
The  stifled  sigh,  the  hidden  tear, 
And  smiles,  that  dared  to  take  their  place, 
Meek  filial  smiles,  upon  thy  face, 
As  that  unhallowed  banner  grew 
Beneath  a  loving  old  man's  view 
Thy  part  is  done — thy  painful  part  ; 
Be  thou  then  satisfied  in  heart  ! 
A  further,  though  far  easier,  task 
Than  thine  hath  been,  my  duties  aik  ; 


238 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE  ;  OR, 


With  theirs  my  efforts  cannot  blend, 

I  cannot  for  such  cause  contend  ; 

Their  aims  I  utterly  forswear  ; 

But  I  in  body  will  be  there. 

Unarmed  and  naked  will  I  go, 

Be  at  their  side,  come  weal  or  woe  : 

On  kind  occasions  I  may  wait, 

See,  hear,  obstruct,  or  mitigate. 

Bare  breast  I  take  and  an  empty  hand."* 

Therewith  he  threw  away  the  lance, 

Which  he  had  grasped  in  that  strong  trance, 

Spurned    it— like    something    that  would 

Between  him  and  the  pure  intent       [stand 

Of  love  on  which  his  soul  was  bent. 

•'  For  thee,  for  thee,  is  left  the  sense 
Of  trial  past  without  offence 
To  God  or  man  ; — such  innocence, 
Such  consolation,  and  the  excess 
Of  an  unmerited  distress  ; 
In  that  thy  very  strength  must  lie. 
O  sister,  I  could  prophesy  ! 
The  time  is  come  that  rings  the  knell 
Of  all  we  loved,  and  loved  so  well ; 
Hope  nothing,  if  I  thus  may  speak 
fo  thee  a  woman,  and  thence  weak  ; 
liope  nothing,  I  repeat ;  for  we 
Are  doomed  to  perish  utterly  : 
'Tis  meet  that  thou  with  me  divide 
The  thought  while  I  am  by  thy  side, 
Acknowledging  a  grace  in  this, 
A  comfort  in  the  dark  abyss  : 
But  look  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone, 
And  be  no  farther  wrought  upon. 
Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate, 
All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that ! 
Weep,  if  that  aid  thee  ;  but  depend 
Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend  ; 
Espouse  thy  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 
To  fortitude  without  reprieve. 
For  we  must  fall,  both  we  and  ours, — 
This  mansion  and  these  pleasant  bowers, 
Walks,  pools,  and  arbours,  homestead,  hall, 
Our  fate  is  theirs,  will  reach  them  all ; 
The  young  horse  must  forsake  his  manger, 
And  learn  to  glory  in  a  stranger  ; 
The  hawk  forget  his  perch — the  hound 
Be  parted  from  his  ancient  ground  : 
The  blast  will  sweep  us  all  away, 
One  desolation,  one  decay  !  [saying 

And   even   this   creature!"    which   words 
He  pointed  to  a  lovely  doe, 
A  few  steps  distant,  feeding,  straying, 
Fak  creature,  and  more  white  than  snow  ! 


*  See  the  old  ballad, — "  The  Rising  of  the 
North." 


"  Even  she  will  to  her  peaceful  woods 
Return,  and  to  her  murmuring  floods, 
And  be  in  heart  and  soul  the  same 
She  was  before  she  hither  came, — 
Ere  she  had  learned  to  love  us  all, 
Herself  beloved  in  Rylstone  Hall. 
But  thou,  my  sister,  doomed  to  be 
The  last  leaf  which  by  Heaven's  decree 
Must  hang  upon  a  blasted  tree  ; 
If  not  in  vain  we  breathed  the  breath 
Together  of  a  purer  faith — 
If  hand  in  hand  we  have  been  led, 
And  thou,  (oh,  happy  thought  this  day  !) 
Not  seldom  foremost  in  the  way — 
If  on  one  thought  our  minds  have  fed, 
And  we  have  in  one  meaning  read — 
If,  when  at  home  our  private  weal 
Hath  suffered  from  the  shock  of  zeal, 
Together  we  have  learned  to  prize 
Forbearance  and  self-sacrifice — 
If  we  like  combatants  have  fared. 
And  for  this  issue  been  prepared — 
If  thou  art  beautiful,  and  youth 
And  thought  endue  thee  with  all  truth — 
Be  strong  ; — be  worthy  of  the  grace 
Of  God,  and  fill  thy  destined  place  : 
A  soul,  by  force  of  sorrows  high, 
Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 
Of  undisturbed  humanity  !" 

He  ended, — or  she  heard  no  more  : 
He  led  her  from  the  yew-tree  shade, 
And  at  the  mansion's  silent  door, 
He  kissed  the  consecrated  maid  ; 
And  down  the  valley  he  pursued, 
Alone,  the  armed  multitude. 


CANTO  III. 

Now  joy  for  you  and  sudden  cheer, 
Ye  watchmen  upon  Brancepeth  towers  ;(8) 
Looking  forth  in  doubt  and  fear, 
Telling  melancholy  hours  ! 
Proclaim  it,  let  your  masters  hear 
That  Norton  with  his  band  is  near  ! 
The  watchmen  from  their  station  high 
Pronounced  theword, — and  the  earls  descry 
Forthwith  the  armed  company 
Marching  down  the  banks  of  Were. 

Said  fearless  Norton  to  the  pair 
Gone  forth  to  hail  him  on  the  plain — 
"  This  meeting,  noble  lords  !  looks  fair, 
I  bring  with  me  a  goodly  train  ; 
Their  hearts  are  with  you  : — hill  and  dale 
Have  helped    us  : — Ure   we   crossed,    and 
Swale, 


'/'///•:  PATE  OF  THE  NORTON S. 


230 


And  horse  and  harness  followed — see 

The  best  part  of  their  yeomanry  ! 

Stand   forth,    my   sons  ! — these  eight    are 

mine, 
Whom  to  this  service  I  commend  ; 
Which  way  soe'er  our  fate  incline, 
These  will  be  faithful  to  the  end  ; 
They  are  my  all  " — voice  failed  him  here, 
' '  My  all  save  one,  a  daughter  dear  ! 
Whom  I  have  left,  the  mildest  birth, 
The  meekest  child  on  this  blessed  earth, 
I  had — but  these  are  by  my  side, 
These  eight,  and  this  is  a  day  of  pride  ! 
The  time  is  ripe — with  festive  din 
Lo  !  how  the  people  are  flocking  in, — 
Like  hungry  fowls  to  the  feeder's  hand 
When  snow  lies  heavy  upon  the  land." 

He  spake  bare  truth  ;  for  far  and  near 
From  every  side  came  noisy  swarms 
Of  peasants  in  their  homely  gear  ; 
And,  mixed  with  these  to  Brancepeth  came 
Grave  gentry  of  estate  and  name, 
And  captains  known  for  worth  in  arms  : 
And  prayed  the  earls  in  self-defence 
To  rise,  and  prove  their  innocence. — 
"  Rise,  noble  earls,  put  forth  your  might 
For  holy  Church,  and  the  people's  right  !" 

The  Norton  fixed,  at  this  demand, 
His  eye  upon  Northumberland, 
And  said,  "  The  minds  of  men  will  own 
No  loyal  rest  while  England's  crown 
Remains  without  an  heir,  the  bait 
Of  strife  and  factions  desperate  ; 
Who,  paying  deadly  hate  in  kind 
Through  all  things  else,  in  this  can  find 
A  mutual  hope,  a  common  mind  ; 
And  plot,  and  pant  to  overwhelm 
All  ancient  honour  in  the  realm. 
Brave  earls  !  to  whose  heroic  veins 
Our  noblest  blood  is  given  in  trust, 
To  you  a  suffering  state  complains, 
And  ye  must  raise  her  from  the  dust. 
With  wishes  of  still  bolder  scope 
On  you  we  look,  with  dearest  hope, 
Even  for  our  altars,  — for  the  prize 
In  heaven,  of  life  that  never  dies  ; 
For  the  old  and  holy  Church  we  mourn, 
And  must  in  joy  to  her  return. 
Behold  !" — and  from  his  son  whose  stand 
Was  on  his  right,  from  that  guardian  hand 
He  took  the  banner,  and  unfurled 
The  precious  folds — "behold,"  said  he, 
"  The  ransom  of  a  sinful  world  ; 
Let  this  your  preservation  be, — 
The  wounds  of  hand.->  and  feet  and  side, 
And  the  sacred  cross  on  which  Jesus  died  ! 


This  bring  I  from  an  ancient  hearth, 

'These  records  wrought  in  pledge  of  love 

By  hands  of  no  ignoble  birth, 

A  maid  o'er  whom  the  blessed  Dove 

Vouchsafed  in  gentleness  to  brood 

While  she  the  holy  work  pursued." 

"  Uplift  the  standard  !"  was  the  cry 

From  all  the  listeners  that  stood  round  ; 

"  Plant  it, — by  this  we  live  or  die  " — 

'The  Norton  ceased  not  for  that  sound, 

But  said,  "The  prayer  which  ye  have  heard 

Much  injured  earls  !  by  these  preferred, 

Is  offered  to   the  saints,  the  sigh 

Of  tens  of  thousands,  secretly." — 

"  Uplift  it  !"  cried  once  more  the  band, 

And  then  a  thoughtful  pause  ensued. 

"  Uplift  it,    !"  said  Northumberland — 

Whereat,  from  all  the  multitude, 

Who  saw  the  banner  reared  on  high 

In  all  its  dread  emblazonry, 

With  tumult  and  indignant  rout 

A  voice  of  uttermost  joy  brake  out  : 

The  transport  was  rolled  down  the  river  of 

Were, 
And  Durham,  the  time-honoured  Durham, 

did  hear, 
And  the  towers  of  Saint   Cuthbert   were 

stirred  by  the  shout ! 


Now  was  the  North  in  arms  : — they  shine 
In  warlike  trim  from  Tweed  to  Tyne, 
At  Percy's  voice  ;  and  Neville  sees 
His  followers  gathering  in  from  Tees. 
From  Were,  and  all  the  little  rills- 
Concealed  among  the  forked  hills — 
Seven  hundred  knights,  retainers  all 
Of  Neville,  at  their  master's  call 
Had  sate  together  in  Raby  hall ! 
Such  strength  that  earldom  held  of  yore ; 
Nor  wanted  at  this  time  rich  store 
Of  well-appointed  chivalry. 
Not  loth  the  sleepy  lance  to  wield, 
And  greet  the  old  paternal  shield, 
They  heard  the  summons  ; — and,  further- 
more, 
Horsemen  and  fo  t  of  each  degree, 
Unbound  by  pledge  of  fealty, 
Appeared,  with  free  and  open  hate 
Of  novelties  in  Church  and  State  ; 
Knight,  burgher,  yeoman,  and  esquire  ; 
And  Romish  priest,  in  priest's  attire. 
And  thus,  in  arms,  a  zealous  band 
Proceeding  under  joint  command, 
'To  Durham  first  their  course  they  bear  ; 
And  in  Saint  Cuthbert 's  ancient  seat 
Sang  mass,  and  tore  the  Book  of  Prayer, — 
And  trod  the  Bible  beneath  their  feet. 


2 10 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE ;  OB, 


Thence  marching  southward  smooth  and 
free, 
'They  mustered  their  host  at  Wetherby, 
Full  sixteen  thousand,  fair  to  see  ;"* 
The  choicest  warriors  of  the  North  ! 
But  none  for  beauty  and  for  worth 
Like  those  eight  sons — embosoming 
Determined  thoughts — who,  in  a  ring 
Each  with  a  lance,  erect  and  tall, 
A  falchion,  and  a  buckler  small, 
Stood  by  their  sire,  on  Clifford-moor, 
To  guard  the  standard  which  he  bore. 
With  feet  that  firmly  pressed  the  ground 
They  stood,  and  girt  their  father  round  ; 
Such  was  his  choice, — no  steed  will  he 
Henceforth  bestride  ; — triumphantly 
He  stood  upon  the  grassy  sod, 
Trusting  himself  to  the  earth,  and  God. 
Rare  sight  to  embolden  and  inspire  ! 
Proud  was  the  field  of  sons  and  sire, 
Of  him  the  most  ;  and  sooth  to  say, 
No  shape  of  man  in  all  the  array 
So  graced  the  sunshine  of  that  day. 
The  monumental  pomp  of  age 
Was  with  this  goodly  personage  ; 
A  stature  undepressed  in  size, 
Unbent,  which  rather  seemed  to  rise, 
In  open  victory  o'er  the  weight 
Of  seventy  years,  to  higher  height  ; 
Magnific  limbs  of  withered  state, — 
A  face  to  fear  and  venerate, — 
Eyes  dark  and  strong,  and  on  his  head 
Bright  locks  of  silver  hair,  thick-spread. 
Which  a  brown  morion  half-concealed, 
Light  as  a  hunter's  of  the  field  ; 
And  thus,  with  girdle  round  his  waist, 
Whereon  the  banner-staff  might  rest 
At  need,  he  stood,  advancing  high 
The  glittering,  floating  pageantry. 

Who  sees  him? — many  see,  and  one 
With  unparticipated  gaze  ;  [none, 

Who  'mong   these   thousand  friends   hath 
And  treads  in  solitary  ways. 
He,  following  wheresoe'er  he  might, 
Hath  watched  the  banner  from  afar, 
As  shepherds  watch  a  lonely  star, 
Or  mariners  the  distant  light 
That  guides  them  on  a  stormy  night. 
And  now  upon  a  chosen  plot 
Of  rising  ground,  yon  heathy  spot  ! 
He  takes  this  day  his  far-off  stand, 
With  breast   unmailed,  unweaponed  hand. 
Bold  is  his  aspect  ;  but  his  eye 
Is  pregnant  with  anxiety, 


From  the  old  ballad 


,  While,  like  a  tutelary  power, 

He  there  stands  fixed,  from  hour  to  hour ; 
!  Yet  sometimes  in  more  humble  guise, 
[  Stretched  out  upon  the  ground  he  lies  ; 

As  if  it  were  his  only  task 

Like  herdsmen  in  the  sun  to  bask, 
I  Or  by  his  mantle's  help  to  find 

A  shelter  from  the  nipping  wind  : 
[  And  thus,  with  short  oblivion  blest, 
I  His  weary  spirits  gather  rest, 
i  Again  he  lifts  his  eyes  ;  and  lo  ! 
j  The  pageant  glancing  to  and  fro  ; 
i  And  hope  is  wakened  by  the  sight, 
!  He  thence  may  learn,  ere  fall  of  night, 
I  Which  way  the  tide  is  doomed  to  flow. 

To  London  were  the  chieftains  bent  ; 

!  But  what  avails  the  bold  intent  ? 

i  A  royal  army  is  gone  forth 

I  To  quell  the  rising  of  the  North  ; 
They  march  with  Dudley  at  their  head, 

I  And,  in  seven  days'  space,  will  to  York  be 

|  led! 

I  Can  such  a  mighty  host  be  raised 
Thus  suddenly,  and  brought  so  near  ? 
The  earls  upon  each  other  gazed  ; 
And  Neville  was  opprest  with  fear  ; 

.  For,  though  he  bore  a  valiant  name, 
His  heart  was  of  a  timid  frame, 
And  bold  if  both  had  been,  yet  they 
"  Against  so  many  may  not  stay."f 
And  therefore  will  retreat  to  seize 
A  stronghold  on  the  banks  of  Tees  ; 
There  wait  a  favourable  hour, 
Until  Lord  Dacre  with  his  power 
From  Naworth  comes  ;  and   Howard's  aid 
Be  with  them  ;  openly  displayed. 

While  through  the  host,  from  man  to  man, 
A  rumour  of  this  purpose  ran, 
The  standard  giving  to  the  care 
Of  him  who  heretofore  did  bear 
That  charge,  impatient  Norton  sought 
The  chieftains  to  unfold  his  thought, 
And  thus  abruptly  spake,  —  "  We  yield 
(And  can  it  be  ?)  an  unfought  field  ! 
How  often  hath  the  strength  of  Heaven 
To  few  triumphantly  been  given  ! 
Still  do  our  very  children  boast 
Of  mitred  Thurston,  what  a  host 
He  conquered  1(9) — Saw  we  not  the  plain, 
(And  flying  shall  behold  again)         [moved 
Where  faith  was  proved  ?— while  to  battle 
The  standard  on  the  sacred  wain 


t  From  the  old  ballad. 


TUB  FATE  OF  THE  NORTON S. 


241 


On  which  the  gray-haired  barons  stood, 

And  the  infant  heir  of  Mowbray's  blood, 

Beneath  the  saintly  ensigns  three. 

Stood  confident  of  victory  ! 

Shall  Percy  blush,  then,  for  his  name? 

Must  Westmoreland  be  asked  with  shame, 

Whose  were  the  numbers,  where  the  loss, 

In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross  ?(io) 

When,  as  the  vision  gave  command, 

The  Prior  of  Durham  with  holy  hand 

Saint  Cuthbert's  relic  did  uprear 

Upon  the  point  of  a  lofty  spear, 

And  God  descended  in  His  power, 

While  the  monks  prayed  in  maiden's  bower. 

Less  would  not  at  our  need  be  due 

To  us,  who  war  against  the  untrue  ; — 

The  delegates  of  heaven  we  rise, 

Convoked  the  impious  to  chastise  ; 

We,  we  the  sanctities  of  old 

Would  re-establish  and  uphold. " 

The  Chiefs  were  by  his  zeal  confounded, 

But   word   was   given — and    the    trumpet 

sounded  ; 
Back  through  the  melancholy  host 
Went  Norton,  and  resumed  his  post. 
Alas  !  thought  he,  and  have  I  borne 
This  banner,  raised  so  joyfully, 
This  hope  of  all  posterity, 
Thus  to  become  at  once  the  scorn 
Of  babbling  winds  as  they  go  by, 
A  spot  of  shame  to  the  sun's  bright  eye, 
To  the  frail  clouds  a  mockery !  [stem ;" 

"Even  these  poor  eight   of  mine   would 
Half  to  himself,  and  half  to  them 
He  spake,  "  would  stem,  or  quell  a  force 
Ten  times  their  number,  man  and  horse  ; 
This  by  their  own  unaided  might, 
Without  their  father  in  their  sight, 
Without  the  cause  for  which  they  fight  ; 
A  cause,  which  on  a  needful  day 
Would  breed  us  thousands  brave  as  they." 
So  speaking  he  his  reverend  head 
Raised  towards  that  imagery  once  more  : 
But  the  familiar  prospect  shed 
Despondency  unfelt  before : 
A  shock  of  intimations  vain, 
Dismay,  and  superstitious  pain, 
Fell  on  him,  with  the  sudden  thought 
Of  her  by  whom  the  work  was  wrought  : 
Oh,  wherefore  was  her  countenance  bright 
With  love  divine  and  gentle  light? 
She  did  in  passiveness  obey, 
But  her  faith  leaned  another  way. 
Ill  tears  she  wept. — I  saw  them  fall, 
I  overheard  her  as  she  spake 
Sad  words  to  that  mute  animal, 
The  White  Doe  in  the  hawthorn  brake  ; 
She  steeped,  but  not  for  Jesu's  sake, 


This  cross  in  tears  :— by  hep,  and  one 
Unworthier  far,  we  are  undone — 
Her  brother  was  it  who  assailed 
Her  tender  spirit  and  prevailed. 
Her  other  parent,  too,  whose  head 
In  the  cold  grave  hath  long  been  laid, 
From  reason's  earliest  dawn  beguiled 
The  docile,  unsuspecting  child  : 
Far  back — far  back  my  mind  must  go 
To  reach  the  well-spring  of  this  woe  ! 
While  thus  he  brooded,  music  sweet 
Was  played  to  cheer  them  in  retreat  ; 
But  Norton  lingering  in  the  rear  : 
Thought  followed  thought— and  ere  the  last 
Of  that  unhappy  train  was  pastj 
Before  him  Francis  did  appear. 

' '  Now  when  'tis  not  your  aim  to  oppose,  ' 
Said  he,  ' '  in  open  field  your  foes ; 
Now  that  from  this  decisive  day 
Your  multitude  must  melt  away, 
An  unarmed  man  may  come  unblamed  ; 
To  ask  a  grace,  that  was  not  claimed 
Long  as  your  hopes  were  high,  he  now 
May  hither  bring  a  fearless  brow  ; 
When  his  discountenance  can  do 
No  injury — may  come  to  you. 
Though  in  your  cause  no  part  I  bear, 
Your  indignation  I  can  share  ; 
Am  grieved  this  backward  march  to  see, 
How  careless  and  disorderly  ! 
I  scorn  your  chieftains,  men  who  lead, 
And  yet  want  courage  at  their  need  ; 
Then  look  at  them  with  open  eyes  ! 
Deserve  they  further  sacrifice  ? 
My  father  !     I  would  help  to  find 
A  place  of  shelter  till  the  rage 
Of  cruel  men  do  like  the  wind 
Exhaust  itself  and  sink  to  rest ; 
Be  brother  now  to  brother  joined  ! 
Admit  me  in  the  equipage 
Of  your  misfortunes,  that  at  least, 
Whatever  fate  remains  behind, 
I  may  bear  witness  in  my  breast 
To  your  nobility  of  mind  !" 

"Thou  enemy,  my  bane  and  blight  ! 
Oh  !  bold  to  fight  the  coward's  fight 
Against  all  good  "—but  why  declare, 
At  length,  the  issue  of  this  prayer? 
Or  how,  from  his  depression  raised, 
The  father  on  the  son  had  gazed  ; 
Suffice  it  that  the  son  gave  way, 
Nor  strove  that  passion  to  allay, 
Nor  did  he  turn  aside  to  prove 
His  brothers'  wisdom  or  their  love — 
But  calmly  from  the  spot  withdrew  ; 


242 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE ■  OB, 


The  like  endeavours  to  renew, 
Should  e'er  a  kindlier  time  ensue. 


CANTO   IV. 

From  cloudless  ether  looking  down, 

The  moon,  this  tranquil  evening,  sees 

A  camp  and  a  beleaguered  town, 

And  castle  like  a  stately  crown 

On  the  steep  rocks  of  winding  Tees  ; 

And  southward  far,  with  moors  between, 

Hill-tops,  and  floods,  and  forest  green, 

The  bright  moon  sees  that  valley  small 

Where  Rylstone's  old  sequestered  hall 

A  venerable  image  yields 

Of  quiet  to  the  neighbouring  fields  ; 

While  from  one  pillared  chimney  breathes 

The  smoke,  and  mounts  in  silver  wreaths. 

The  courts  are  hushed  ; — for  timely  sleep 

The  greyhounds  to  their  kennel  creep  ; 

The  peacock  in  a  broad  ash-tree 

Aloft  is  roosted  for  the  night, 

He  who  in  proud  prosperity 

Of  colours  manifold  and  bright 

Walked  round,  affronting  the  daylight ; 

And  higher  still  above  the  bower 

Where  he  is  perched,  from  yon  lone  tower 

The  hall-clock  in  the  clear  moonshine 

With  glittering  finger  points  at  nine. 

Ah  !  who  could  think  that  sadness  here 

Hath  any  sway  ?  or  pain,  or  fear? 

A  soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 

Of  streams  inaudible  by  day; 

The  garden  pool's  dark  surface,  stirred 

By  the  night  insects  in  their  play, 

Breaks  into  dimples  small  and  bright  ; 

A  thousand,  thousand  rings  of  light, 

That  shape  themselves  and  disappear 

Almost  as  soon  as  seen  : — and,  lo  ! 

Not  distant  far,  the  milk-white  doe  : 

The  same  fair  creature  who  was  nigh 

Feeding  in  tranquillity, 

When  Francis  uttered  to  the  maid 

His  last  words  in  the  yew-tree  shade  ; — 

The  same  fair  creature,  who  hath  found 

He;  way  into  forbidden  ground  ; 

Where  now,  within  this  spacious  plot 

For  pleasure  made,  a  goodly  spot, 

With  lawns  and  beds  of  flowers,  and  shades 

Of  trellis-work  in  long  arcades, 

And  cirque  and  crescent  framed  by  wall 

Of  close-chpt  foliage  green  and  tall, 

Converging  walks,  and  fountains  gay, 

And  terraces  in  trim  array, — 

Beneath  yon  cypress  spiring  high, 

With  pine  and  cedar  spreading  wide 

Their  darksome  boughs  on  either  side, 


In  open  moonlight  doth  she  lie ; 
Happy  as  others  of  her  kind, 
That,  far  from  human  neighbourhood, 
Range  unrestricted  as  the  wind, 
Through  park,  or  chase,  or  savage  wood. 

But  where  at  this  still  hour  is  she, 
The  consecrated  Emily? 
Even  while  I  speak  behold  the  maid 
Emerging  from  the  cedar  shade 
To  open  moonshine,  where  the  doe 
Beneath  the  cypress-spire  is  laid  ; 
Like  a  patch  of  April  snow, 
Upon  a  bed  of  herbage  green, 
Lingering  in  a  woody  glade. 
Or  behind  a  rocky  screen  ; 
Lonely  relic  !  which,  if  seen 
By  the  shepherd,  is  passed  by 
With  an  inattentive  eye. 
Nor  more  regard  doth  she  bestow 
Upon  the  uncomplaining  doe  ! 

Yet  the  meek  creature  was  not  free, 
Erewhile,  from  some  perplexity  : 
For  thrice  hath  she  approached,  this  day. 
The  thought-bewildered  Emily ; 
Endeavouring,  in  her  gentle  way, 
Some  smile  or  look  of  love  to  gain, — 
Encouragement  to  sport  or  play  ; 
Attempts  which  by  the  unhappy  maid 
Have  all  been  slighted  or  gainsaid. 
Yet  is  she  soothed  :  the  viewless  breeze 
Comes  fraught  with  kindlier  sympathies  : 
lire  she  hath  reached  yon  rustic  shed 
I  lung  with  late-flowering  woodbine,  spread 
Along  the  walls  and  overhead  ; 
The  fragrance  of  the  breathing  flowers 
Revives  a  memory  of  those  hours 
When  here,  in  this  remote  alcove, 
(While  from  the  pendant  woodbine  came 
Like  odours,  sweet  as  if  the  same) 
A  fondly-anxious  mother  strove 
To  teach  her  salutary  fears 
And  mysteries  above  her  years. 
Yes,  she  is  soothed  : — an  image  faint — 
And  yet  not  faint — a  presence  bright 
Returns  to  her  ; — 'tis  that  blest  saint 
Who  with  mild  looks  and  language  mild 
Instructed  here  her  darling  child, 
While  yet  a  prattler  on  the  knee, 
To  worship  in  simplicity 
The  invisible  God,  and  take  for  guide 
The  faith  reformed  and  purified. 
'Tis  flown — the  vision,  and  the  sense 
Of  that  beguiling  influence  ! 
"  But  oh  !  thou  angel  from  above, 
Thou  spirit  of  maternal  love, 


THE  FATE  OF  TEE  NOBTONS. 


248 


That  stood'st  before  my  eyes  more  clear 
Than  ghosts  are  fabled  to  appear 
Sent  on  embassies  of  fear  ; 
As  thou  thy  presence  hast  to  me 
Vouchsafed,  in  radiant  ministry, 
Descend  on  Francis — through  the  air 
Of  this  sad  earth  to  him  repair, 
Speak  to  him  with  a  voice  and  say, 
That  he  must  cast  despair  away  !" 

Then  from  within  the  embowered  retreat 
Where  she  iiad  found  a  grateful  seat 
Perturbed  she  issues. — She  will  go  ; 
Herself  will  follow  to  the  war, 
And  clasp  her  father's  knees  ; — ah,  no 
She  meets  the  insuperable  bar, 
The  injunctions  by  her  brother  laid  ; 
His  parting  charge — but  ill  obeyed  ! 
That  interdicted  all  debate, 
\11  prayer  for  this  cause  or  for  that  ; 
All  efforts  that  would  turn  aside 
The  headlong  current  of  their  fate  : 
Her  duty  is  to  stand  and  wait  ; 
In  resignation  to  abide 
The  shock,  and  finally  secure 
D'er  pain  and  grief  a  triumph  pure. 
She  knows,  she  feels  it,  and  is  cheered  ; 
At  least  her  present  pangs  are  checked. 
But  now  an  ancient  man  appeared, 
Approaching  her  with  grave  respect. 
Down  the  smooth  walk  which  then  she  trod 
He  paced  along  the  silent  sod, 
And  greeting  her  thus  gently  spake. 
"  An  old  man's  privilege  I  take  ; 
Dark  is  the  time — a  woeful  day  ! 
Dear  daughter  of  affliction,  say 
How  can  I  serve  you?  point  the  way." 

' '  Rights  have  you,  and  may  well  be  bold  : 
You  with  my  father  have  grown  old 
In  friendship; — go — from  him— from  me  — 
Strive  to  avert  this  misery. 
This  would  I  beg  ;  but  on  my  mind 
A  passive  stillness  is  enjoined. 
If  prudence  offer  help  or  a;d, 
On  you  is  no  restriction  laid  ; 
You  not  forbidden  to  recline 
With  hope  upon  the  Will  divine." 

"Hope, "  said  the  sufferer's  zealous  friend, 
•'  Must  not  forsake  us  till  the  end. — 
In  Craven's  wilds  is  many  a  den, 
To  shelter  persecuted  men  : 
Far  under  ground  is  many  a  cave, 
Where  they  might  lie  as  in  the  grave. 
Until  this  storm  hath  ceased  to  rave  ; 
Or  let  them  cross  the  river  Tweed, 
And  be  at  once  from  peril  freed  !  " 


"Ah  tempt  me  not  !  "  she  faintly  sighed  ; 
"  I  will  not  counsel  nor  exhort, — 
With  my  condition  satisfied  ; 
But  you,  at  least,  may  make  report 
Ot  what  befalls  ; — be  this  your  task — 
This  may  be  done  ; — 'tis  all  I  ask  !  " 

She  spake — and  from  the  lady's  sight 
The  sire,  unconscious  of  his  age, 
Departed  promptly  as  a  page 
Bound  on  some  errand  of  delight. 
The  noble  Francis — wise  as  brave, 
Thought  he,  may  have  the  skill  to  save  : 
With  hopes  in  tenderness  concealed, 
Unarmed  he  followed  to  the  field. 
Him  will  I  seek  !  the  insurgent  powers 
Are  now  besieging  Barnard's  towers, — 
"  Grant  that  the  moon  which  shines  thi- 

night 
May  guide  them  in  a  prudent  flight !  " 

But  quick  the  turns  of  chance  and  change, 
And  knowledge  has  a  narrow  range  ; 
Whence  idle  fears,  and  needless  pain, 
And  wishes  blind,  and  efforts  vain. — 
Their  flight  the  fair  moon  may  not  see  ; 
For,  from  mid-heaven,  already  she 
Hath  witnessed  their  captivity. 
She  saw  the  desperate  assault 
Upon  that  hostile  castle  made  ; — 
But  dark  and  dismal  is  the  vault 
Where  Norton  and  his  sons  are  laid  ! 
Disastrous  issue  !    He  had  said 
' '  This  night  yon  haughty  towers  must  yield , 
Or  we  for  ever  quit  the  field. 
Neville  is  utterly  dismayed, 
For  promise  fails  of  Howard's  aid  ; 
And  Dacre  to  our  call  replies 
That  he  is  unprepared  to  rise. 
My  heart  is  sick  ;  this  weary  pause 
Must  needs  be  fatal  to  the  cause. 
The  breach  is  open — on  the  wall, 
This  night,  the  banner  shall  be  planted  ! 
'Twas  done  : — his  sons  were  with  him — 

all  ;— 
They  belt  him  round  with  hearts  undaunted ; 
And  others  follow  ; — sire  and  son 
Leap  down  into  the  court — 'Tis  won  " — 
They  shout  aloud — but  Heaven  decreed 
Another  close 
To  that  brave  deed, 
Which  struck  with  terror  friends  and  foes  ! 
The  friend  shrinks  back — the  foe  recoils 
From  Norton  and  his  filial  band  ; 
But  they,  now  caught  within  the  toils, 
!  Against  a  thousand  cannot  stand  : — 
I  The  foe  from  numbers  courage  drew, 
And  overpowered  that  gallant  few. 


244 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE ;  OB, 


' '  A  rescue  for  the  standard  !  "  cried 
The  father  from  within  the  walls  ; 
But,  see,  the  sacred  standard  falls  ! — 
Confusion  through  the  camp  spread  wide 
Some  fled — and  some  their  fears  detained 
But  ere  the  moon  had  sunk  to  rest 
In  her  pale  chambers  of  the  west, 
Of  that  rash  levy  nought  remained. 


CANTO  V. 

High  on  a  point  of  rugged  ground, 
Among  the  wastes  of  Rylstone  Fell, 
Above  the  loftiest  ridge  or  mound 
Where  foresters  or  shepherds  dwell, 
An  edifice  of  warlike  frame(n) 
Stands  single  (Norton  Tower  its  name)  ; 
It  fronts  all  quarters,  and  looks  round 
O'er  path  and  road,  and  plain  and  dell, 
Dark  moor,  and  gleam  of  pool  and  stream, 
Upon  a  prospect  without  bound. 

The  summit  of  this  bold  ascent, 
Though  bleak  and  bare,  and  seldom  free 
As  Pendle-hill  or  Pennygent 
From  wind,  or  frost,  or  vapours  wet; 
Had  often  heard  the  sound  of  glee 
When  there  the  youthful  Mortons  met, 
To  practise  games  and  archery  : 
How  proud  and  happy  they  !  the  crowd 
Of  lookers-on  how  pleased  and  proud  ! 
And  from  the  scorching  noon-tide  sun, 
From  showers,  or  when  the  prize  was  won, 
They  to  the  watch-tower  did  repair. 
Commodious  pleasure-house  !  and  there 
Would  mirth  run  round,  with  generous  fare ; 
And  the  stern  old  lord  of  Rylstone-hall, 
He  was  the  proudest  of  them  all ! 

But  now,  his  child,  with  anguish  pale, 
Upon  the  height  walks  to  and  fro  ; 
'Tis  well  that  she  hath  heard  the  tale, 
Received  the  bitterness  of  woe  : 
For  she  had  hoped,  had  hoped  and  feared, 
Such  rights  did  feeble  nature  claim  ; 
And  oft  her  steps  had  hither  steered, 
Though  not  unconscious  of  self-blame  ; 
For  she  her  brother's  charge  revered, 
His  farewell  words  ;  and  by  the  same, 
Yea,  by  her  brother's  very  name, 
Had,  in  her  solitude,  been  cheered. 

She  turned  to  him,  who  with  his  eye 
Was  watching  her  while  on  the  height 
She  sate,  or  wandered  restlessly, 
O'erburthened  by  her  sorrow's  weight ; 
To  him  who  this  dire  news  had  told, 


And  now  beside  the  mourner  stood 
(That  gray-haired  man  of  gentle  blood, 
Who  with  her  father  had  grown  old 
In  friendship,  rival  hunters  they, 
And  fellow-warriors  in  their  day)  ; 
To  Rylstone  he  the  tidings  brought  ; 
Then  on  this  place  the  maid  had  sought  ; 
And  told,  as  gently  as  could  be, 
The  end  of  that  sad  tragedy, 
Which  it  had  been  his  lot  to  see. 

To  him  the  lady  turned  :  "You  said 
That  Francis  lives,  he  is  not  dead?" 

"  Your  noble  brother  hath  been  spared 
To  take  his  life  they  have  not  dared. 
On  him  and  on  his  high  endeavour 
The  light  of  praise  shall  shine  for  ever  ! 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven's  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain  ; 
Not  vainly  struggled  in  the  might 
Of  duty,  seeing  with  clear  sight ; 
He  was  their  comfort  to  the  last, 
Their  joy  till  every  pang  was  past. 

"  I  witnessed  when  to  York  they  came- 
What,  lady,  if  their  feet  were  tied  ! 
They  might  deserve  a  good  man's  blame  ; 
But,  marks  of  infamy  and  shame, 
These  were  their  triumph,  these  their  pi  id 
Nor  wanted  'mid  the  pressing  crowd 
Deep  feeling,  that  found  utterance  loud, 
'  Lo,  Francis  comes,'  there  were  who  cried 
'  A  prisoner  once,  but  now  set  free  ! 
'Tis  well,  for  he  the  worst  defied 
For  the  sake  of  natural  piety  ; 
He  rose  not  in  this  quarrel,  he 
His  father  and  his  brothers  wooed, 
Both  for  their  own  and  country's  good, 
To  rest  in  peace — he  did  divide, 
He  parted  from  them  ;  but  at  their  side 
Now  walks  in  unanimity — 
Then  peace  to  cruelty  and  scorn, 
While  to  the  prison  they  are  borne, 
Peace,  peace  to  all  indignity  ! ' 

"And  so  in  prison  were  they  laid — 
Oh,  hear  me,  hear  me,  gentle  maid, 
For  I  am  come  with  power  to  bless, 
By  scattering  gleams,  through  your  distress, 
Of  a  redeeming  happiness. 
Me  did  a  reverent  pity  move 
And  privilege  of  ancient  love  ; 
And,  in  your  service,  I  made  bold — 
And  entrance  gained  to  that  stronghold. 

"  Your  father  gave  me  cordial  greeting  ; 
But  to  his  purposes,  that  burned 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


2tt 


Within  him,  instantly  returned — 

He  was  commanding  and  entreating, 

And  said,  '  We  need  not  stop,  my  son  ! 

But  I  will  end  what  is  begun  ; 

Tis  matter  which  I  do  not  fear 

To  intrust  to  any  living  ear.' 

And  so  to  Francis  he  renewed 

His  words  more  calmly  thus  pursued. 

'*  *  Might  this  our  enterprise  have  sped, 
Change  wide  and  deep  the  land  had  seen, 
A  renovation  from  the  dead, 
A  spring-tide  of  immortal  green  : 
The  darksome  altars  would  have  blazed 
Like  stars  when  clouds  are  rolled  away  ; 
Salvation  to  all  eyes  that  gazed, 
Once  more  the  rood  had  been  upraised 
To  spread  its  arms,  and  stand  for  aye. 
Then,  then,  had  I  survived  to  see 
New  life  in  Bolton  Priory  ; 
The  voice  restored,  the  eye  of  truth 
Re-opened  that  inspired  my  youth  ; 
To  see  her  in  her  pomp  arrayed  ; 
This  banner  (for  such  vow  I  made) 
Should  on  the  consecrated  breast 
Of  that  same  temple,  have  found  rest  : 
I  would  myself  have  hung  it  high, 
Glad  offering  of  glad  victory  ! 

"  'A  shadow  of  such  thought  remains 
To  cheer  this  sad  and  pensive  time  ; 
A  solemn  fancy  yet  sustains 
One  feeble  being — bids  me  climb 
Even  to  the  last — one  effort  more 
To  attest  my  faith,  if  not  restore. 

"  '  Hear  then,'  said  he,  'while  I  impart, 
My  son,  the  last  wish  of  my  heart. 
The  banner  strive  thou  to  regain  ; 
And,  if  the  endeavour  be  not  vain, 
Bear  it — to  whom  if  not  to  thee 
Shall  I  this  lonely  thought  consign  ? — 
Bear  it  to  Bolton  Priory, 
And  lay  it  on  Saint  Mary's  shrine, — 
To  wither  in  the  sun  and  breeze 
'Mid  those  decaying  sanctities. 
There  let  at  least  the  gift  be  laid, 
The  testimony  there  displayed  ; 
Bold  proof  that  with  no  selfish  aim, 
But  for  lost  faith  and  Christ's  dear  name, 
I  helmeted  a  brow  though  white, 
And  took  a  place  in  all  men's  sight ; 
Yea,  offered  up  this  beauteous  brood, 
This  fair  unrivalled  brotherhood, 
And  turned  away  from  thee,  my  son  ! 
And  left — but  be  the  rest  unsaid, 
The  name  untouched,  the  tear  unshed. — 
My  wish  is  known,  and  I  have  done: 


Now  promise,  grant  this  one  request, 
This  dying  prayer,  and  be  thou  blest !' 

"Then  Francis  answered  fervently, 
'  If  God  so  will,  the  same  shall  be.' 

"  Immediately,  this  solemn  word 
Thus  scarcely  given,  a  noise  was  heard, 
And  officers  appeared  in  state 
To  lead  the  prisoners  to  their  fate. 
They  rose,  oh  !  wherefore  should  I  fear 
To  tell,  or,  lady,  you  to  hear  ? 
They  rose — embraces  none  were  given — 
They  stood    like    trees    when    earth  and 

heaven 
Are  calm ;  they  knew  each  other's  worth, 
And  reverently  the  band  went  forth  : 
They  met,  when  they  had  reached  the  door. 
The  banner  which  a  soldier  bore, 
One  marshalled  thus  with  base  intent 
That  he  in  scorn  might  go  before, 
And,  holding  up  this  monument, 
Conduct  them  to  their  punishment ; 
So  cruel  Sussex,  unrestrained 
By  human  feeling,  had  ordained. 
The  unhappy  banner  Francis  saw, 
And,  with  a  look  of  calm  command 
Inspiring  universal  awe, 
He  took  it  from  the  soldier's  hand  ; 
And  all  the  people  that  were  round 
Confirmed  the  deed  in  peace  profound. 
High  transport  did  the  father  shed 
Upon  his  son — and  they  were  led, 
Led  on,  and  yielded  up  their  breath, 
Together  died,  a  happy  death  ! 
But  Francis,  soon  as  he  had  braved 
This  insult,  and  the  banner  saved, 
That  moment,  from  among  the  tide 
Of  the  spectators  occupied 
In  admiration  or  dismay, 
Bore  unobserved  his  charge  away." 

These  things,  which  thus  had  in  the  sight 
And  hearing  passed  of  him  who  stood 
With  Emily,  on  the  watch-tower  height, 
In  Rylstone's  woeful  neighbourhood. 
He  told  ;  and  oftentimes  with  voice 
Of  power  to  comfort  or  rejoice  ; 
For  deepest  sorrows  that  aspire, 
Go  high,  no  transport  ever  higher. 
"  Yet,  yet  in  this  affliction,"  said 
The  old  man  to  the  silent  maid, 
"  Yet,  lady  !  Heaven  is  good — the  night 
Shows  yet  a  star  which  is  most  bright ; 
Your  brother  lives— he  lives — is  come 
Perhaps  already  to  his  home  ; 
Then  let  us  leave  this  dreary  place." 
She  yielded,  and  with  gentle  pace. 


240 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  EYLSTONE;  Olt, 


Though  without  one  uplifted  look, 
To  Rylstone  Hall  her  way  she  took. 


CANTO  VI. 

Why  comes  not  Francis  ? — Joyful  cheer 

In  that  parental  gratulation, 

And  glow  of  righteous  indignation, 

Went  with  him  from  the  doleful  city  : — 

He  fled— yet  in  his  flight  could  hear 

The  death-sound  of  the  minster-bell  ; 

That  sullen  stroke  pronounced  farewell 

To  Marmaduke,  cut  off  from  pity  ! 

To  Ambrose  that !  and  then  a  knell 

For  him,  the  sweet  half-opened  flower  • 

For  all — all  dying  in  one  hour  ! 

Why  comes  not  Francis?  Thoughts  of  love 

Should  bear  him  to  his  sister  dear 

With  motion  fleet  as  winged  dove  ; 

Yea,  like  a  heavenly  messenger, 

An  angel-guest,  should  he  appear. 

Why  comes  he  not  ? — for  westward  fast 

Along  the  plain  of  York  he  past  ; 

The  banner-staff  was  in  his  hand, 

The  imagery  concealed  from  sight, 

And  'cross  the  expanse,  in  open  flight, 

Reckless  of  what  impels  or  leads, 

Unchecked  he  hurries  on  ; — nor  heeds 

The  sorrow  of  the  villages  ; 

Spread  by  triumphant  cruelties 

Of  vengeful  military  force, 

And  punishment  without  remorse. 

He  marked  not,  heard  not  as  he  fled  ; 

All  but  the  suffering  heart  was  dead 

For  him,  abandoned  to  blank  awe, 

To  vacancy,  and  horror  strong  ; 

And  the  first  object  which  he  saw, 

With  conscious  sight,  as  he  swept  along, — 

It  wut,  the  banner  in  his  hand  ! 

He  felt,  and  made  a  sudden  stand. 

He  looked  about  like  one  betrayed  : 

What  hath  he  done  ?  what  promise  made  ? 

Oh,  weak,  weak  moment !  to  what  end 

Can  such  a  vain  oblation  tend, 

And  he  the  bearer  ? — Can  he  go 

Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe, 

And  find,  find  anywhere,  a  right 

To  excuse  him  in  his  country's  sight  ? 

No,  will  not  all  men  deem  the  change 

A  downward  course,  perverse  and  strange  ? 

Here  is  it, — but  how,  when?  must  she, 

The  unoffending  Emily, 

Again  this  piteous  object  see? 

Such  conflict  long  did  he  maintain 
Within  himself,  and  found  no  rest  ; 


Calm  liberty  he  could  not  gain  ; 
And  yet  the  service  was  unblest. 
His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden,  even  that  thought, 
Exciting  self-suspicion  strong, 
Swayed  the  brave  man  to  his  wrong. 
And  how,  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 
Its  will  intelligibly  shown, 
Finds  he  the  banner  in  his  hand, 
Without  a  thought  to  such  intent, 
Or  conscious  effort  of  his  own  ; 
And  no  obstruction  to  prevent 
His  father's  wish,  and  last  command  ! 
And,  thus  beset,  he  heaved  a  sigh  ; 
Remembering  his  own  prophecy 
Of  utter  desolation,  made 
To  Emily  in  the  yew-tree  shade  : 
He  sighed,  submitting  to  the  power, 
The  might  of  that  prophetic  hour. 
"  No  choice  is  left,  the  deed  is  mine- 
Dead  are  they,  dead  ! — and  I  will  go, 
And,  for  their  sakes,  come  weal  or  woe, 
Will  lay  the  relic  on  the  shrine." 

So  forward  with  a  steady  will 
He  went,  and  traversed  plain  and  hill  ; 
And  up  the  vale  of  Wharf  his  way 
Pursued  ; — and,  on  the  second  day, 
He  reached  a  summit  whence  his  eyes 
Could  see  the  tower  of  Bolton  rise. 
There  Francis  for  a  moment's  space 
Made  halt — but  hark  !  a  noise  behind 
Of  horsemen  at  an  eager  pace  ! 
He  heard,  and  with  misgiving  mind. 
'Tis  Sir  George  Bowes  who  leads  the  band 
They  come,  by  cruel  Sussex  sent  ; 
Who,  when  the  Nortons  from  the  hand 
Of  death  had  drunk  their  punishment, 
Bethought  him,  angry  and  ashamed, 
How  Francis  had  the  banner  claimed, 
And  with  that  charge  had  disappeared  ; 
By  all  the  standers-by  revered. 
His  whole  bold  carriage  (which  had  quelled 
Thus  far  the  opposer,  and  repelled 
All  censure,  enterprise  so  bright 
That  even  bad  men  had  vainly  striven 
Against  that  overcoming  light) 
Was  then  reviewed, and  prompt  word  given, 
That  to  what  place  soever  fled 
He  should  be  seized,  alive  or  dead. 

The  troop  of  horse  had  gained  the  height 
Where  Francis  stood  in  open  sight. 
They  hem  him  round — "  Behold  the  proof, 
Behold  the  ensign  in  his  hand  ! 
He  did  not  arm,  he  walked  aloof  ! 
For  why  ? — to  save  his  father's  land  ; — 


TEE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


247 


Worst  traitor  of  them  all  is  he, 
A  traitor  dark  and  cowardly  !" 

"  I  am  no  traitor,"  Francis  said, 
"  Though  this  unhappy  freight  I  bear  ; 
It  weakens  me,  my  heart  hath  bled 
Till  it  is  weak — but  you,  beware, 
Nor  do  a  suffering  spirit  wrong, 
Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong  !" 
At  this  he  from  the  beaten  road 
Retreated  towards  a  brake  of  thorn, 
Which  like  a  place  of  'vantage  showed  ; 
And  there  stood  bravely,  though  forlorn. 
In  self-defence  with  warlike  brow 
He  stood, — nor  weaponless  was  now  ; 
He  from  a  soldier's  hand  had  snatched 
A  spear, — and  with  his  eyes  he  watched 
Their  motions,  turning  round  and  round  : 
His  weaker  hand  the  banner  held  ; 
And  straight,  by  savage  zeal  impelled, 
Forth  rushed  a  pikeman,  as  if  he, 
Not  without  harsh  indignity, 
Would  seize  the  same  : — instinctively- 
To  smite  the  offender— with  his  lance 
Did  Francis  from  the  brake  advance  ; 
But,  from  behind,  a  treacherous  wound 
Unfeeling,  brought  him  to  the  ground, 
A  mortal  stroke  :— oh,  grief  to  tell ! 
Thus,  thus,  the  noble  Francis  fell : 
There  did  he  lie  of  breath  forsaken  ; 
The  banner  from  his  grasp  was  taken, 
And  borne  exultingly  away  ;  [it  lay. 

And  the  body  was  left  on  the  ground  where 

Two  days,  as  many  nights  he  slept 
Alone,  unnoticed,  and  unwept  ; 
For  at  that  time  distress  and  fear 
Possessed  the  country  far  and  near  ; 
The  third  day,  one,  who  chanced  to  pass, 
Beheld  him  stretched  upon  the  grass. 
A  gentle  forester  was  he, 
And  of  the  Norton  tenantry  ; 
And  he  had  heard  that  by  a  train 
Of  horsemen  Francis  had  been  slain. 
Much  was  he  troubled — for  the  man 
Hath  recognized  his  pallid  face  ; 
And  to  the  nearest  huts  he  ran, 
And  called  the  people  to  the  place. 
How  desolate  is  Rylstone  Hall  ! 
Such  was  the  instant  thought  of  all  ; 
And  if  the  lonely  lady  there 
Should  be,  this  sight  she  cannot  bear  ! 
Such  thought  the  forester  expressed  ; 
And  all  were  swayed,  and  deemed  it  best 
That,  if  the  priest  should  yield  assent 
And  join  himself  to  their  intent, 
Then,  they,  for  Christian  pity's  sake, 
In  holy  ground  a  grave  would  make  ; 


That  straightway  buried  he  should  be 
In  the  church-yard  of  the  priory. 

Apart,  some  little  space,  was  made 
The  grave  where  Francis  must  be  laid. 
In  no  confusion  or  neglect 
This  did  they, — but  in  pure  respect 
That  he  was  born  of  gentle  blood  ; 
And  that  there  was  no  neighbourhood 
Of  kindred  fur  him  in  that  ground  ; 
So  to  the  church-yard  they  are  bound, 
Bearing  the  body  on  a  bier 
In  decency  and  humble  cheer  ; 
And  psalms  are  sung  with  holy  sound. 

But  Emily  hath  raised  her  head, 
And  is  again  disquieted  ; 
She  must  behold  ! — so  many  gone, 
Where  is  the  solitary  one  ? 
And  forth  from  Rylstone  Hall  stepped  she, 
To  seek  her  brother  forth  she  went, 
And  tremblingly  her  course  she  bent 
Toward  Bolton's  ruined  priory. 
She  comes,  and  in  the  vale  hath  heard 
The  funeral  dirge  ; — she  sees  the  knot 
Of  people,  sees  them  in  one  spot — 
And  darting  like  a  wounded  bird 
She  reached  the  grave,  and  with  her  breast 
Upon  the  ground  received  the  rest, — 
The  consummation,  the  whole  ruth 
And  sorrow  of  this  final  truth  ! 

CANTO  VII. 

Thou  spirit,  whose  angelic  hand 
Was  to  the  harp  a  strong  command, 
Called  the  submissive  strings  to  wake 
In  glory  for  this  maiden's  sake, 
Say,  spirit !  whither  hath  she  fled 
To  hide  her  poor  afflicted  head  ? 
What  mighty  forest  in  its  gloom 
Enfolds  her  ? — is  a  rifted  tomb 
Within  the  wilderness  her  seat  ? 
Some  island  which  the  wild  waves  beat, 
Is  that  the  sufferer's  last  retreat  ? 
Or  some  aspiring  rock  that  shrouds 
Its  perilous  front  in  mists  and  clouds  ? 
High-climbing  rock — low  sunless  dale — 
Sea — desert — what  do  these  avail  ? 
Oh,  take  her  anguish  and  her  fears 
Into  a  deep  recess  of  years  ! 

'Tis  done; — despoil  and  desolation(i2) 
O'er  Rylstone's  fair  domain  have  blown  ; 
The  walks  and  pools  neglect  hath  sown 
With  weeds,  the  bowers  are  overthrown, 
Or  have  given  way  to  slow  mutation, 
While,  in  their  ancient  habitation 


248 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE ;  OB, 


The  Norton  name  hath  been  unknown. 

The  lordly  mansion  of  its  pride 

Is  stripped  ;  the  ravage  hath  spread  wide 

Through  park  and  field,  a  perishing 

That  mocks  the  gladness  of  the  spring  ! 

And  with  this  silent  gloom  agreeing 

There  is  a  joyless  human  being, 

Of  aspect  such  as  if  the  waste 

Were  under  her  dominion  placed  : 

Upon  a  primrose  bank,  her  throne 

Of  quietness,  she  sits  alone  ; 

There  seated,  may  this  maid  be  seen, 

Among  the  ruins  of  a  wood, 

Erewhile  a  covert  bright  and  green, 

And  where  full  many  a  brave  tree  stood  ; 

That  used  to  spread  its  boughs,  and  ring 

With  the  sweet  birds'  carolling. 

Behold  her,  like  a  virgin  queen, 

Neglecting  in  imperial  state 

These  outward  images  of  fate, 

And  carrying  inward  a  serene 

And  perfect  sway,  through  many  a  thought 

Of   chance  and   change,    that   hath  been 

To  the  subjection  of  a  holy,  [brought 

Though  stern  and  rigorous,  melancholy  ! 

The  like  authority,  with  grace 

Ofawfulness,  is  in  her  face, — 

There  hath  she  fixed  it  ;  yet  it  seems 

To  o'ershadow  by  no  native  right 

That  face,  which  cannot  lose  the  gleams, 

Lose  utterly  the  tender  gleams 

Of  gentleness  and  meek  delight, 

And  loving-kindness  ever  bright  : 

Such  is  her  sovereign  mien  ; — her  dress 

(A  vest,  with  woollen  cincture  tied, 

A  hood  of  mountain-wool  undyed) 

Is  homely, — fashioned  to  express 

A  wandering  pilgrim's  humbleness. 


And  she  hath  wandered,  long  and  far, 
Beneath  the  light  of  sun  and  star  ; 
Hath  roamed  in  trouble  and  in  grief, 
Driven  forward  like  a  withered  leaf, 
Yea,  like  a  ship  at  random  blown 
To  distant  places  and  unknown. 
But  now  she  dares  to  seek  a  haven 
Among  her  native  wilds  of  Craven  ; 
Hath  seen  again  her  father's  roof, 
And  put  her  fortitude  to  proof  ; 
The  mighty  sorrow  hath  been  borne, 
And  she  is  thoroughly  forlorn  : 
Her  soul  doth  in  itself  stand  fast, 
Sustained  by  memory  of  the  past 
And  strength  of  reason  ;  held  above 
The  infirmities  of  mortal  love  ; 
Undaunted,  lofty,  calm,  and  stable, 
And  awfully  impenetrable. 


And  so,  beneath  a  mouldered  tree, 
A  self-surviving  leafless  oak, 
By  unregarded  age  from  stroke 
Of  ravage  saved — sate  Emily. 
There  did  she  rest,  with  head  reclined, 
Herself  most  like  a  stately  flower, 
(Such  have  I  seen)  whom  chance  of  birth 
Hath  separated  from  its  kind, 
To  live  and  die  in  a  shady  bower, 
Single  on  the  gladsome  earth. 

When,  with  a  noise  like  distant  thunder, 
A  troop  of  deer  came  sweeping  by  ; 
And,  suddenly,  behold  a  wonder  ! 
For,  of  that  band  of  rushing  deer, 
A  single  one  in  mid  career 
Hath  stopped,  and  fixed  its  large  full  eye 
Upon  the  Lady  Emily, 
A  doe  most  beautiful,  clear-white, 
A  radiant  creature,  silver-bright ! 

Thus  checked,  a  little  while  it  stayed  ; 
A  little  thoughtful  pause  it  made  ; 
And  then  advanced  with  stealth-like  pace, 
Drew  softly  near  her — and  more  near, 
Stopped  once  again  ; — but,  as  no  trace 
Was  found  of  anything  to  fear, 
Even  to  her  feet  the  creature  came, 
And  laid  its  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  looked  into  the  lady's  face, 
A  look  of  pure  benignity, 
And  fond  unclouded  memory  ; 
It  is,  thought  Emily,  the  same, 
The  very  doe  of  other  years  ! 
The  pleading  look  the  lady  viewed, 
And,  by  her  gushing  thoughts  subdued. 
She  melted  into  tears — 
A  flood  of  tears,  that  flowed  apace 
Upon  the  happy  creature's  face. 

Oh,  moment  ever  blest !  O  pair  ! 
Beloved  of  Heaven,  Heaven's  choicest  care, 
This  was  for  you  a  precious  greeting, — 
For  both  a  bounteous  fruitful  meeting. 
Joined  are  they,  and  the  sylvan  doe 
Can  she  depart  ?  can  she  forego 
The  lady,  once  her  playful  peer, 
And  now  her  sainted  mistress  dear? 
And  will  not  Emily  receive 
This  lovely  chronicler  of  things 
Long  past,  delights  and  sorrowings? 
Lone  sufferer  !  will  not  she  believe 
The  promise  in  that  speaking  face, 
And  take  this  gift  of  Heaven  with  grace  ? 

That  day,  the  first  of  a  reunion 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  communion, 


riTR  FATE  OF  THE  NORTON*. 


249 


That  day  of  balmy  April  weather, 
They  tarried  in  the  wood  together. 
And  when,  ere  fall  of  evening-dew, 
She  from  this  sylvan  haunt  withdrew, 
The  white  doe  tracked  with  faithful  pace 
The  lady  to  her  dwelling-place  ; 
That  nook  where,  on  paternal  ground, 
A  habitation  she  had  found, 
The  master  of  whose  humble  board 
Once  owned  her  father  for  his  lord  ; 
A  hut,  by  tufted  trees  defended, 
Where    Rylstone   brook    with    Wharf   is 
blended. 

When  Emily  by  morning  light 
Went  forth,  the  doe  was  there  in  sight. 
She  shrunk  :— with  one  frail  shock  of  pain, 
Received  and  followed  by  a  prayer, 
Did  she  behold — saw  once  again  ; 
Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear  ;— 
But,  wheresoever  she  looked  round, 
All  now  was  trouble-haunted  ground. 
So  doth  the  sufferer  deem  it  good 
Even  once  again  this  neighbourhood 
To  leave.— Unwooed,  yet  unforbidden, 
The  white  doe  followed  up  the  vale, 
Up  to  another  cottage— hidden 
In  the  deep  fork  of  Amerdale  1(13) 
And  there  may  Emily  restore 
I  lerself,  in  spots  unseen  before. 
Why  tell  of  mossy  rock,  or  tree, 
By  lurking  Denbrook's  pathless  side, 
Haunts  of  a  strengthening  amity 
That  calmed  her,  cheered,  and  fortified  ? 
For  she  hath  ventured  now  to  read 
Of  time,  and  place,  and  thought,  and  deed, 
Endless  history  that  lies 
In  her  silent  follower's  eyes  ! 
Who  with  a  power  like  human  reason 
Discerns  the  favourable  season, 
Skilled  to  approach  or  to  retire,  — 
From  looks  conceiving  her  desire, 
From  look,  deportment,  voice,  or  mien. 
That  vary  to  the  heart  within. 
If  she  too  passionately  wreathed 
Her  arms,  or  over-deeply  breathed. 
Walked  quick  or  slowly,  every  mood 
In  its  degree  was  understood  ; 
Then  well  may  their  accord  be  true, 
And  kindly  intercourse  ensue. 
Oh  !  surely  'twas  a  gentle  rousing 
When  she  by  sudden  glimpse  espied 
The  white  doe  on  the  mountain  browsing, 
Or  in  the  meadow  wandered  wide  ! 
Howpleased,  when  down  the  stragglersank 
Beside  her,  on  some  sunny  bank  1 
How  soothed,  when  in  thick  bower  inclosed, 
They  like  a  nested  pair  reposed  ! 


Fair  vision  !  when  it  crossed  the  maid 
Within  some  rocky  cavern  laid, 
The  dark  cave's  portal  gliding  by, 
White  as  whitest  cloud  on  high, 
Floating  through  an  azure  sky. 
What  now  is  left  for  pain  or  fear  ? 
That  presence,  dearer  and  more  dear, 
Did  now  a  very  gladness  yield 
At  morning  to  the  dewy  field, 
While  they,  side  by  side,  were  straying, 
And  the  shepherd's  pipe  was  playing  , 
And  with  a  deeper  peace  endued 
The  hour  of  moonlight  solitude. 

With  her  companion,  in  such  frame 
Of  mind,  to  Rylstone  back  she  came  ; 
And,  wandering  through  the  wasted  groves, 
Received  the  memory  of  old  loves, 
Undisturbed  and  undistrest, 
Into  a  soul  which  now  was  blest 
With  a  soft  spring-day  of  holy, 
Mild,  delicious,  melancholy  : 
Not  sunless  gloom  or  unenlightened, 
But  by  tender  fancies  brightened. 

When  the  bells  of  Rylstone  played(i4) 
Their  Sabbath  music— "  (Boh  US  ai)h£p' 
That  was  the  sound  they  seemed  to  speak  ; 
Inscriptive  legend,  which  I  ween 
May  on  those  holy  bells  be  seen, 
That  legend,  and  her  grandsire's  name  ; 
And  oftentimes  the  lady  meek 
Had  in  her  childhood  read  the  same, 
Words  which  she  slighted  at  that  day  : 
But    now,    when    such  sad    change   was 

wrought, 
And  of  that  lonely  name  she  thought, 
The  bells  of  Rylstone  seemed  to  say, 
While  she  sat  listening  in  the  shade, 
With  vocal  music,  "  ©oft  us  aijfcc ;" 
And  all  the  hills  were  glad  to  bear 
Their  part  in  this  effectual  prayer. 

Nor  lacked  she  reason's  firmest  power  : 
But  with  the  white  doe  at  her  side 
Up  doth  she  climb  to  Norton  tower, 
And  thence  looks  round  her  far  and  wide ; 
Her  fate  there  measures—  all  is  stilled,- — 
The  feeble  hath  subdued  her  heart ; 
Behold  the  prophecy  fulfilled, 
Fulfilled,  and  she  sustains  her  part ! 
But  here  her  brother's  words  have  failed  ; 
Here  hath  a  milder  doom  prevailed  ; 
That  she,  of  him  :.nd  all  bereft, 
Hath  yet  this  faithful  partner  left  ; 
This  single  creature  that  disproves 
His  words,  remains  for  her,  and  loves. 


250 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE;  OH, 


If  tears  are  shed,  they  do  not  fall 

For  loss  of  him,  for  one  or  all ; 

Yet,  sometimes,  sometimes  doth  she  weep, 

Moved  gently  in  her  soul's  soft  sleep  ; 

A  few  tears  down  her  cheek  descend 

For  this  her  last  and  living  friend. 

Bless,  tender  hearts,  their  mutual  lot, 
And  bless  for  both  this  savage  spot ! 
Which  Emily  doth  sacred  hold 
For  reasons  dear  and  manifold — 
Here  hath  she,  here  before  her  sight, 
Close  to  the  summit  of  this  height, 
The  grassy  rock-encircled  pound(i5) 
In  which  the  creature  first  was  found 
So  beautiful  the  spotless  thrall, 
(A  lovely  youngling  white  as  foam,) 
That  it  was  brought  to  Rylstone  Hall  ; 
Her  youngest  brother  led  it  home, 
The  youngest,  then  a  lusty  boy,  [joy  ! 

Brought  home  the  prize — and  with  what 

But  most  to  Bolton's  sacred  pile, 
On  favouring  nights,  she  loved  to  go  : 
There  ranged  through  cloister,  court,  and 
Attended  by  the  soft-paced  doe  ;         [aisle, 
Nor  feared  she  in  the  still  moonshine 
To  look  upon  Saint  Mary's  shrine  ; 
Nor  on  the  lonely  turf  that  showed 
Where  Francis  slept  in  his  last  abode. 
For  that  she  came  ;  there  oft  and  long 
She  sate  in  meditation  strong  : 
And,  when  she  from  the  abyss  returned 
Of    thought,     she     neither     shrunk    nor 

mourned ; 
Was  happy  that  she  lived  to  greet 
Her  mute  companion  as  it  lay 
In  love  and  pity  at  her  feet ; 
How  happy  in  its  turn  to  meet 
That  recognition  !  the  mild  glance 
Beamed  from  that  gracious  countenance  ; 
Communication,  like  the  ray 
Of  a  new  morning,  to  the  nature 
And  prospects  of  the  inferior  creature  ! 

A  mortal  song  we  frame,  by  dower 
Encouraged  of  celestial  power  ; 
Power  which  the  viewless  spirit  shed 
By  whom  we  were  first  visited  ; 
Whose  voice  we  heard,  whose  hand  and 

wings 
Swept  like  a  breeze  the  conscious  strings, 
When,  left  in  solitude,  erewhile 
,We  stood  before  this  ruined  pile, 
And,  quitting  unsubstantial  dreams, 
Sang  in  this  presence  kindred  themes; 
Distress  and  desolation  spread 
Through  humanheart,  and  pleasure  dead, — 


Dead — but  to  live  again  on  earth, 

A  second  and  yet  nobler  birth  ; 

Dire  overthrow,  and  yet  how  high 

The  re-ascent  in  sanctity  ! 

From  fair  to  fairer  ;  day  by  day 

A  more  divine  and  loftier  way  ! 

Even  such  this  blessed  pilgrim  trod, 

By  sorrow  lifted  towards  her  God  ; 

Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 

Of  undisturbed  mortality. 

Her  own  thoughts  loved  she  ;   and  could 

A  dear  look  to  her  lowly  friend, —      [bend 

There  stopped  ; — her  thirst  was  satisfied 

With  what  this  innocent  spring  supplied — 

Her  sanction  inwardly  she  bore, 

And  stood  apart  from  human  cares  : 

But  to  the  world  returned  no  more, 

Although  with  no  unwilling  mind 

Help  did  she  give  at  need,  and  joined 

The  Wharfdale  peasants  in  their  prayers. 

At  length,  thus  faintly,  faintly  tied 

To  earth,  she  was  set  free,  and  died. 

Thy  soul,  exalted  Emily, 

Maid  of  the  blasted  family, 

Rose  to  the  God  from  whom  it  came  \ 

In  Rylstone  church  her  mortal  frame 

Was  buried  by  her  mother's  side. 

Most  glorious  sunset ! — and  a  ray 
Survives — the  twilight  of  this  day  ; 
In  that  fair  creature  whom  the  fields 
Support,  and  whom  the  forest  shields  ; 
Who,  having  filled  a  holy  place, 
Partakes,  in  her  degree,  Heaven's  grace  ; 
And  bears  a  memory  and  a  mind 
Raised  far  above  the  law  of  kind  ; 
Haunting  the  spots  with  lonely  cheer 
Which  her  dear  mistress  once  held  dear  : 
Loves  most  what  Emily  loved  most — 
The  inclosure  of  this  church-yard  ground  ; 
Here  wanders  like  a  gliding  ghost, 
And  every  Sabbath  here  is  found  ; 
Comes  with  the  people  when  the  bells 
Are  heard  among  the  moorland  dells, 
Finds  entrance  through  yon  arch,  where 
Lies  open  on  the  Sabbath-day  ;  [way 

Here  walks  amid  the  mournful  waste 
Of  prostrate  altars,  shrines  defaced, 
And  floors  encumbered  with  rich  show 
Of  fret-work  imagery  laid  low  ; 
Paces  softly,  or  makes  halt, 
By  fractured  cell,  or  tomb,  or  vault, 
By  plate  of  monumental  brass 
Dim-gleaming  among  weeds  and  grass, 
And  sculptured  forms  of  warriors  brave  , 
But  chiefly  by  that  single  grave, 
That  one  sequestered  hillock  green, 
The  pensive  visitant  is  seen. 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  N011T0NS. 


251 


Where  doth  the  gentle  creature  lie 
With  those  adversities  unmoved  , 
Calm  spectacle,  by  earth  and  sky 
In  their  benignity  approved  1 
And  aye,  methinks,  this  hoary  pile, 
Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay, 
Looks  down  upon  her  with  a  smile, 
A  gracious  smile,  that  seems  to  say, 
"Thou,  thou  art  not  a  child  of  time, 
But  daughter  of  the  eternal  prime  !" 


NOTES. 

Note  i   page  232 

The  poem  of  "The White  Doe  of  Rylstone"  is 
founded  on  a  local  tradition,  and  on  the  ballad 
in  Percy's  Collection,  entitled,  'The  Rising  of 
the  North."  The  tradition  is  as  follows:  — 
"  About  this  time,"  not  long  after  the  dissolu- 
tion. "  a  white  doe,  say  the  aged  people  of  the 
neighbourhood,  long  continued  to  make  a 
weekly  pilgrimage  from  Rylstone  over  the  fells 
of  Bolton,  and  was  constantly  found  in  the 
abbey  church-yard  during  divine  service  ,  after 
the  close  of  which  she  returned  home  as  regu- 
larly as  the  rest  of  the  congregation."— Dr. 
Whitaker's  "  History  of  the  Deanery  of  Craven." 
Rylstone  was  tne  property  and  residence  of  the 
Nortons,  distinguished  in  that  ill-advised  and 
unfortunate  insurrection,  which  led  me  to  con- 
nect with  this  tradition  the  principal  circum- 
stances of  their  fate,  as  recorded  in  the  ballad. 

"  Bolton  Priory,"  says  Dr.  Whitaker  in  his 
excellent  book,  "  The  History  and  Antiquities 
of  the  Deanery  of  Craven,"  "  stands  upon  a 
beautiful  curvature  of  the  Wharf,  on  a  level 
sufficiently  elevated  to  protect  it  from  inunda- 
tions, and  low  enough  for  every  purpose  of  pic- 
turesque effect. 

"  Opposite  to  the  east  window  of  the  priory 
church,  the  river  washes  the  foot  of  a  rock 
nearly  perpendicular,  and  of  the  richest  purple, 
»vhere  several  of  the  mineral  beds,  which  break 
out,  instead  of  maintaining  their  usual  inclina- 
tion to  the  horizon,  are  twisted  by  some  incon- 
ceivable process  into  undulating  and  spiral  lines. 
To  the  south  all  is  soft  and  delicious  ;  the  eye 
reposes  upon  a  few  rich  pastures,  a  moderate 
reach  of  the  river,  sufficiently  tranquil  to  form 
a  mirror  to  the  sun,  and  the  bounding  hills  be- 
yond, neither  too  near  nor  too  lofty  to  exclude, 
even  in  winter,  any  portion  of  his  rays. 

"  But,  after  all,  the  glories  of  Bolton  are  on 
the  North.  Whatever  the  most  fastidious  taste 
could  require  to  constitute  a  perfect  landscape 
is  not  only  found  here,  but  in  its  proper  place. 
In  front,  and  immediately  under  the  eye,  is  a 
smooth  expanse  of  park-like  inclosure,  spotted 
with  native  elm,  ash,  etc.;  of  the  finest  growth  : 
on  the  right  a  skirting  oak  wood,  with  jutting 
points  of  gray  rock  ;  on  the  left  a  rising  copse. 
Still  forward,  are  seen  the  aged  groves  of  Bol- 
ton Park,  the  growth  of  centurias  ;  and   farther 


yet,  the  barren  and  rocky  distances  ol  Simon- 
seat  and  Barden  Fell  contrasted  with  the  warmth, 
fertility,  and  luxuriant  foliage  of  the  valley  be- 
low. 

"About  half  a  mile  above  Bolton  the  valley 
closes,  and  either  side  of  the  Wharf  is  overhung 
by  solemn  woods,  from  which  huge  perpendicu- 
lar masses  of  gray  rock  jut  out  at  intervals 

"This  sequestered  scene  was  almost  inacces- 
sible till  of  late,  that  ridings  have  been  cut  on 
both  sides  of  the  river,  and  the  most  interesting 
points  laid  open  by  judicious  thinnings  in  ihe 
woods.  Here  a  tributary  stream  rushes  from  a 
waterfall,  and  bursts  through  a  woody  glen  to 
mingle  its  waters  with  the  Wharf:  there  the 
Wharf  itself  is  nearly  lost  in  a  deep  cleft  in  the 
rock,  and  next  becomes  a  horned  flood  inclosing 
a  woody  island — sometimes  it  reposes  for  a 
moment,  and  then  resumes  its  native  character 
lively,  irregular,  and  impetuous. 

"  The  cleft  mentioned  above  is  the  Iremen 
dous  Strid.  This  chasm,  being  incapable  of 
receiving  the  winter  floods,  has  lormed.  on  either 
side,  a  broad  strand  of  naked  gritstone  lull  of 
rock-basins,  or  '  pots  of  the  Linn,  which  bear 
witness  to  the  restless  impetuosity  of  so  many 
northern  torrents.  But.  if  here  Wharf  is  lost  to 
the  eye,  it  amply  repays  another  sense  by  Us 
deep  and  solemn  roar,  like  '  the  voice  of  the 
angry  spirit  of  the  waters,'  heard  far  above  and 
beneath,  amidst  the  silence  of  the  surrounding 
woods. 

"  Th  terminating  object  of  the  landscape  is 
the  remains  of  Barden  tower,  interesting  from 
their  form  and  situation,  and  still  more  so  from 
the  recollections  which  they  excite.'' 

Note  2.     Page  233,  col   x 

"  From  Bolton  %  old  monastic  iowet.' 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  at  the  present  day 
Bolton  Abbey  wants  this  ornament:  but  the 
poem,  according  to  the  imagination  of  the  poet, 
is  composed  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time.  "  For- 
merly," says  Dr.  Whitaker,  "  over  the  transept 
was  a  tower.  This  is  proved  not  only  from  the 
mention  of  bells  at  the  dissolution,  when  they 
could  have  had  no  other  place,  but  from  the 
pointed  roof  of  the  choir,  which  must  h?.ve  ter- 
minated westward,  in  some  building  of  superior 
height  to  the  ridge." 

Note  3.  Page  233,  col.  2. 
"A  rural  chapel,  neatly  drcst." 
"  The  nave  of  the  church  having  been  re- 
served at  the  dissolution,  for  the  use  of  the 
Saxon  cure,  is  still  a  parochial  chapel  ;  and,  at 
this  day,  is  as  well  kept  as  the  neatest  English 
cathedral." 

Note  4.     Page  233,  col.  2. 

"  Who  sate  in  the  sliade  of  the  prior  s  oak." 

"  At  a  small  distance  from  the  great  gateway 
stood  the  prior's  oak,  which  was  felled  about  the 
year  1720,  and  sold  for  yol.  According  to  the 
price  of  wood  at  that  time,  it  could  scarcely 
have  contained  less  than  1400  feet  of  timber. 


252 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  BYLSTONE  ;  OB, 


Note  5.     Page  235,  col.  1. 

"  Wlun  Lady  Aaliza  mourned." 

The  detail  of  this  tradition  may  be  found  in  Dr. 
Whitaker' s  book,  and  in  a  poem  of  this  collec- 
tion, entitled,  "  The  Force  of  Prayer,"  &c. 

Note  6.     Page  235,  col.  2. 

" Pass,  pass  viho  will,  yon  chantry  door." 

"At  the  east  end  of  the  north  aisle  of  Bolton 
Priory  church  is  a  chantry  belonging  to  Beth- 
mesly  Hall,  and  a  vault,  where,  according  to 
tradition,  the  Claphams"  (who  inherited  this 
estate,  by  the  female  line  from  the  Mauleverers) 
"were  interred  upright."  John  de  Clapham,  of 
whom  this  ferocious  act  is  recorded,  was  a  name 
of  great  note  in  his  time  :  "  he  was  a  vehement 
partisan  of  the  House  of  Lancaster,  in  whom 
the  spirit  of  his  chieftains,  the  Cliffords,  seemed 
to  survive." 

Note  7.     Page  235,  col.  2. 

"  Who  loved  the  Shepherd  Lord  to  meet." 

At  page  109  of  this  volume  will  be  found  a 
poem  entitled,  "  Song  at  the  P'east  of  Brougham 
Castle,  upon  the  Restoration  of  Lord  Clifford 
the  Shepherd  to  the  Estates  and  Honours  of  his 
Ancestors."  To  that  poem  is  annexed  an  ac- 
count of  this  personage,  chiefly  extracted  from 
Burn's  and  Nicholson's  History  of  Cumberland 
and  Westmoreland.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
add  these  further  particulars  concerning  him  from 
Dr.  Whitaker,  who  says,"  He  retired  to  the  soli- 
tude of  Barden,  where  he  seems  to  have  en- 
larged the  tower  out  of  a  common  keeper's 
lodge,  and  where  he  found  a  retreat  equally 
favourable  to  taste,  to  instruction,  and  to  devo- 
tion. The  narrow  limits  of  his  residence  show 
that  he  had  learned  to  despise  the  pomp  of 
greatness,  and  that  a  small  train  of  servants 
could  suffice  him  who  had  lived  to  the  age  of 
thirty  a  servant  himself.  I  think  this  nobleman 
resided  here  almost  entirely  when  in  Yorkshire, 
for  all  his  charters  which  I  have  seen  are  dated 
at  Barden. 

"  His  early  habits,  and  the  want  of  those  arti- 
ficial measures  of  time  which  even  shepherds 
now  possess,  had  given  him  a  turn  for  observing 
the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  and,  having 
purchased  such  an  apparatus  as  could  then  be 
procured,  he  amused  and  informed  himself  by 
those  pursuits,  with  the  aid  of  the  canons  of 
Bolton,  some  of  whom  are  said  to  have  been  well 
versed  in  what  was  then  known  of  the  science. 

"  I  suspect  this  nobleman  to  have  been  some- 
times occupied  in  a  more  visionary  pursuit, 
and  probably  in  the  same  company.  For, 
from  the  family  evidences,  I  have  met  with 
two  MSS.  on  the  subject  of  alchemy,  which, 
from  the  character,  spelling,  etc.,  may  almost 
certainly  be  referred  to  the  reign  of  Henry 
the  Seventh.  If  these  were  originally  deposited 
with  the  MSS.  of  the  Cliffords,  it  might 
have  been  for  the  use  of  this  nobleman.  If 
they  were  brought  from  Bolton  at  the  disso- 
lution, they  must  have  been  the  work  of  those 


canons  whom  he  almost  exclusively  conversed 
with. 

"In  these  peaceful  employments  Lord  Clif- 
ford spent  the  whole  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh 
and  the  first  years  of  his  son.  But  in  the  year 
1513,  when  almost  sixty  years  old,  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  a  principal  command  over  the  army 
which  fought  at  Flodden,  and  showed  that  the 
military  genius  of  the  family  had  neither  been 
chilled  in  him  by  age,  nor  extinguished  by  habits 
of  peace. 

"  He  survived  the  battle  of  Flodden  ten  years, 
and  died  April  23rd,  1523,  aged  about  70.  I 
shall  endeavour  to  appropriate  to  him  a  tomb, 
vault,  and  chantry,  in  the  choir  of  the  church  at 
Bolton,  as  I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  he 
was  deposited,  when  dead,  at  a  distance  from 
the  place  which  in  his  lifetime  he  loved  so  well. 

"  By  his  last  will  he  appointed  his  body  to  be 
interred  at  Shap,  if  he  died  in  Westmoreland  ; 
or  at  Bolton,  if  he  died  in  Yorkshire." 

With  respect  to  the  canons  of  Bolton,  Dr. 
Whitaker  shows  from  MSS.  that  not  only  al- 
chemy but  astronomy  was  a  favourite  pursuit 
with  them. 

Note  8.     Page  238,  col.  2. 

' '  Ye  watchmen  upon  Brancepeth  towers. " 

Brancepeth  Castle  stands  near  the  river  Were, 
a  few  miles  from  the  city  of  Durham.  It  for- 
merly belonged  to  the  Nevilles,  Earls  of  West- 
moreland.    See  Dr.  Percy's  account. 

Note  9.     Page  240,  col.  2. 

"  Of  mitred  Thurston,  when  a  host 
He  conquered  I" 

See  the  historians  for  the  account  of  this 
memorable  battle,  usually  denominated  the 
Battle  of  the  Standard. 

Note  10.     Page  241,  col.  1. 

"  In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross." 

"  In  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Durham 
was  strucken  and  begun,  the  17th  day  of  Oc- 
tober, anno  1346,  there  did  appear  to  John 
Fosser,  then  prior  of  the  abbey  of  Durham, 
commanding  him  to  take  the  holy  corporax- 
cloth,  wherewith  St.  Cuthbert  did  cover  the 
chalice  when  he  used  to  say  mass,  and  to  put 
the  same  holy  relique  like  to  a  banner-cloth  upon 
the  point  of  a  spear,  and  the  next  morning  to  go 
and  repair  to  a  place  on  the  west  side  of  the  city 
of  Durham,  called  the  Red  Hills,  where  the 
maid's  bower  wont  to  be,  and  there  to  remain 
and  abide  till  the  end  of  the  battle.  To  which 
vision,  the  prior  obeying,  and  taking  the  same 
for  a  revelation  of  God's  grace  and  mercy  by 
the  mediation  of  holy  St.  Cuthbert,  did  accord- 
ingly the  next  morning,  with  the  monks  of  the 
said  Abbey,  repair  to  the  said  Red  Hills,  and 
there  most  devoutly  humbling  and  prostrating 
themselves  in  prayer  for  the  victory  in  the  said 
battle  :  (a  great  multitude  of  the  Scots  running 
and  pressing  by  them,  with  intention  to  have 
spoiled  them,  yet  had  no  power  to  commit  any 


rill-:  IWTIC  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


253 


violence  under  such  holy  persons,  so  occupied  m 
prayer,  being  protected  and  defended  by  the 
mighty  providence  of  Almighty  God,  and  by  the 
mediation  of  holy  St.  Cuthbert,  and  by  the 
presence  of  the  holy  relique).  And,  after  many 
conflicts  and  warlike  exploits  there  had  and  done 
between  the  English  men  and  the  King  of  Scots 
and  his  company,  the  said  battle  ended,  and  the 
victory  was  obtained,  to  the  great  overthrow 
and  confusion  of  the  Scots,  their  enemies.  And 
then  the  said  prior  and  monks,  accompanied  with 
Ralph  Lord  Nevil,  and  John  Nevil  his  son,  and 
the  Lord  Percy,  and  many  other  nobles  of  Eng- 
land, returned  home  and  went  to  the  abbey 
church,  there  joining  in  hearty  prayer  and 
thanksgiving  to  God  and  holy  St.  Cuthbert  for 
the  victory  .achieved  that  day." 

This  battle  was  afterwards  called  the  Battle  of 
Neville  s    Cross,    from    the   following    circum- 
■  : — 

"On  the  west  side  of  the  city  of  Durham, 
where  two  roads  pass  each  other,  a  most  notable, 
famous,  and  goodly  cross  of  stone-work  was 
erected  and  set  up  to  the  honour  of  God  for  the 
victory  there  obtained  in  the  field  of  battle,  and 
known  by  the  name  of  Nevil's  Cross,  and  built 
.it  the  sole  cost  of  the  Lord  Ralph  Nevil,  one  of 
the  most  excellent  and  chief  persons  in  the  said 
battle."  The  relique  of  St.  Cuthbert  afterwards 
became  of  great  importance  in  military  events. 
For  soon  after  this  battle,  says  the  same  author, 
"The  prior  caused  a  goodly  and  sumptuous 
banner  to  be  made,  (which  is  then  described  at 
great  length,'  and  in  the  midst  of  the  same 
banner-cloth  was  the  said  holy  relique  and  cor- 
porax-cloth  enclosed,  etc.,  etc.,  and  so  sump- 
tuously finished,  and  absolutely  perfected,  this 
banner  was  dedicated  to  holy  St.  Cuthbert,  of 
intent  and  purpose,  that  for  the  future  it  should 
be  carried  to  any  battle,  as  occasion  should 
serve  ;  and  was  never  carried  and  showed  at 
any  battle  but  by  the  especial  grace  of  God  Al- 
mighty, and  the  mediation  of  holy  St.  Cuthbert, 
it  brought  home  victory  ;  which  banner-cloth, 
after  the  dissolution  of  the  abbey,  fell  into  the 
possession  of  Dean  Whittingham,  whose  wife 
was  called  Katharine,  being  a  Frenchwoman,  (as 
is  most  credibly  reported  by  eyewitnesses,)  did 
most  injuriously  burn  the  same  in  her  fire,  to  the 
open  contempt  and  disgrace  of  all  ancient  and 
goodly  rehques." — Extracted  from  a  book  en- 
titled, "  Durham  Cathedral,  as  it  stood  before 
the  Dissolution  of  the  Monastery."  It  appears, 
from  the  old  metrical  history,  that  the  above- 
mentioned  banner  was  carried  by  the  Earl  of 
Surrey  to  Flodden  field. 

Note  11.     Page  244,  col.  1. 

"An  edifice  of  warlike  frame 
Stands  single  [Norton  Tower  its  name)." 

It  is  so  called  to  this  day,  and  is  thus  de- 
scribed by  Dr.  Whitaker':— "  Rylstone  Fell  yet 
exhibits  a  nonument  of  the  old  warfare  between 
the  Mortons  and  the  Cliffords.  On  a  point  of  very 
high  ground,  commanding  an  immense  prospect, 
and  protected  by  two  deep  ravines,  are  the  re- 
mains of  a  square  tower,  expressly  said  by  Dods- 


worth  to  have  been  built  by  Richard  Norton. 
The  walls  are  of  strong  grout  work,  about  four 
feet  thick.  It  seems  to  have  been  three  stories 
high.  Breaches  have  been  industriously  made 
in  all  the  sides,  almost  to  the  ground,  to  render 
it  untenable. 

"  But  Norton  Tower  was  probably  a  sort  of 
pleasure-house  in  summer,  as  there  are,  adjoin- 
ing to  it,  several  large  mounds  (two  ofthem 
are  pretty  entire),  of  which  no  other  account 
can  be  given  than  that  they  were  butts  for  large 
companies  of  archers. 

"  The  place  is  savagely  wild,  and  admirably 
adapted  to  the  uses  of  a  watch-tower." 

Note  12.     Page  247,  col.  2. 

—  "  despoil  and  desolation 

O'er  Rylstone' s fair  domain  have  blown." 

"After  the  attainder  of  Richard  Norton,  his 
estates  were  forfeited  to  the  crown,  where  they 
remained  till  the  2nd  or  3rd  of  James  ;  they 
were  then  granted  to  Francis  Earl  of  Cumber- 
land." From  an  accurate  survey  made  at  that 
time,  several  particulars  have  been  extracted  by 
Dr.  \V.  It  appears  that  the  mansion-house  was 
then  in  decay.  Immediately  adjoining  is  a 
close,  called  the  Vivery,  so  called  undoubtedly 
from  the  French  I'tvier,  or  modern  Latin  Viva- 
I  rium  ;  for  there  are  near  the  house  large  remains 
of  a  pleasure-ground,  such  as  were  introduced 
I  in  the  earlier  part  of  Elizabeth's  time,  with 
j  topiary  works,  fish-ponds,  an  island,  etc.  The 
!  whole  township  was  ranged  by  an  hundred  and 
thirty  red  deer,  the  property  of  the  lord,  which, 
together  with  the  wood,  had,  after  uie  attainder 
of  Mr.  Norton,  been  committed  to  Sir  Stephen 
Tempest.  The  wood,  it  seems,  had  been  aban- 
doned to  depredations,  before  which  time  it  ap- 
pears, that  the  neighbourhood  must  have  ex- 
hibited a  forest-like  and  sylvan  scene.  In  this 
survey,  among  the  old  tenants,  is  mentioned  one 
Richard  Kitchen,  butler  to  Mr.  Norton,  who  rose 
in  rebellion  with  his  master,  and  was  executed 
at  Ripon." 

Note  13.  Page  249,  col.  1. 
"  In  the  deep  fork  of  Amerdale." 
"  At  the  extremity  of  the  parish  of  Burnsal, 
the  valley  of  Wharf  forks  off  into  two  great 
branches,  one  of  which  retains  the  name  of 
Wharfdale  to  the  source  of  the  river  ;  the  other 
is  usually  called  Littondale,  but  more  anciently 
and  properly  Amerdale.  Dern-brook,  which 
runs  along  an  obscure  valley  from  the  N.W.  is 
derived  from  a  Teutonic  word,  signifying  con- 
cealment."—Dr.  Whitaker. 

Note  14.     Page  249,  col.  2. 
"  When  the  bells  of  Rylstone  played 

Their  Sabbath  music— <■  (finU  US  c"Ujt(C.'  ' 

On  one  of  the  bells  of  Rylstone  church,  which 
seems  coeval  with  the  building  of  the  tower,  is 
this  cipher,   3J,  $.  for  John   Norton,  and  the 

motto,  «  (5otJ  us  antic." 


254 


THE  PRIORESS'S  TALE 


Note  ij      Page  250,  col.  1 
"  ^W"  grassy  rock-encircled  pound  " 

Whicl/is  thus  described  by  Dr.  Whitaker:— 
''On  tbjt  plain  summit  of  the  hill  are  the  foun- 
daticuis  of  a  strong  wall  stretching  from  the  S.W, 
to  lift-  ^T  F  corner  of  the  tower,  and  to  the  edge 
qf  a  very  Jeep  glen.  From  this  glen,  a  ditch, 
several  hundred  yards  long,  runs  south  to  another 
deep  and  rugged  rapine.  On  the  N.  and  W., 
where  the  banks  are  very  steep,  no  wall  or 
mound  is  discoverable,  paling  being  the  only 
fence  that  could  stand  on  such  ground. 

"  From  the  '  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der,' it  appears  that  such  pounds  for  deer,  sheep, 
etc.,  were  far  from  being  uncommon  in  the 
south  of  Scotland.  The  principle  of  them  was 
something  like  that  of  a  wire  mouse-trap.  On 
the  declivity  of  a  steep  hill,  the  bottom  and 
sides   of   which   were  fenced  so  as   to   be   im- 


passable, a  wall  was  constructed  nearly  level 
with  the  surface  on  the  outside,  yet  so  high 
within  that  without  wings  it  was  impossible  to 
escape  in  the  opposite  direction.  Care  was  pro- 
bably taken  that  these  inclosures  should  contain 
better  feed  than  the  neighbouring  parks  or 
forests ;  and  whoever  is  acquainted  with  the 
habits  of  these  sequacious  animals,  will  easily 
conceive,  that  if  the  leader  was  once  tempted 
to  descend  into  the  snare,  an  herd  would  fol- 
low." 

I  cannot  conclude  without  recommending  to 
the  notice  of  all  lovers  of  beautiful  scenery — 
Bolton  Abbey  and  its  neighbourhood.  This  en- 
chanting spot  belongs  to  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire ;  and  the  superintendence  of  it  has  for 
some  years  been  intrusted  to  the  Rev.  William 
Carr,  who  has  most  skilfully  opened  out  its  fea- 
tures ;  and,  in  whatever  he  has  added,  has  dom 
justice  to  the  place  by  working  with  an  invisiblt 
hand  of  art  in  the  very  spirit  of  nature. 


&ty  Ifnqttss's  fait. 

(FROM   CHAUCER.)      „ 


"  Call  up  him  who  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold." 


In  the  following  poem  I  have  allowed  myself  no 
further  deviation  from  the  original  than  was 
necessary  for  the  fluent  reading  and  instant 
understanding  of  the  author  :  so  much,  how- 
ever, is  the  language  altered  since  Chaucer's 
time,  especially  in  pronunciation,  that  much 
was  to  be  removed,  and  its  place  supplied  with 
as  little  incongruity  as  possible.  The  ancient 
accent  has  been  retained  in  a  few  conjunctions 
as  also  and  alway,  from  a  conviction  that 
such  sprinklings  of  antiquity  would  be  ad- 
mitted, by  persons  of  taste,  to  have  a  graceful 
accordance  with  the  subject.  The  fierce 
bigotry  of  the  prioress  forms  a  fine  back- 
ground for  her  tender-hearted  sympathies  with 
the  mother  and  child  ;  and  the  mode  in  which 
the  story  is  told  amply  atones  for  the  extrava- 
gance of  the  miracle. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord  !  how  wondrously," 

(quoth  she) 
"  Thy  name  in  this  large  world  is  spread 

abroad  ! 
For  not  alone  by  men  of  dignity 
Thy  worship  is  performed  and  precious  laud ; 
But  bythe  mouths  of  children,  gracious  God  ! 
Thy  goodness  is  set  forth  ;  they  when  they  lie 
Upon  the  breast  thy  name  do  glorify. 


"  Wherefore  in  praise,  the  worthiest  that  1 

may, 
J-su!  of  thee,  and  the  white  lily-flower 
Which  did  thee  bear,  and  is  a  maid  for  aye, 
To  tell  a  story  I  will  use  my  power  ; 
Not  that  I  may  increase  her  honour's  dower, 
For  she  herself  is  honour,  and  the  root 
Of  goodness,  next  her  Son  our  soul's  best 

boot. 

' '  O  mother  maid  !  O  maid  and  mother  free ! 
O  bush  unburnt !  burning  in  Moses'  sight ! 
That  down  didst  ravish  from  the  Deity, 
Through  humbleness,  the  Spirit   that  did 
alight  [glory's  might, 

Upon    thy  heart,    whence,    through    that 
Conceived  was  the  Father's  sapience, 
Help  me  to  tell  it  in  thy  reverence  ! 

"  Lady,  thy  goodness,  thy  magnificence, 
Thy  virtue,  and  thy  great  humility, 
Surpass  all  science  and  all  utterance  ; 
For  sometimes,  lady !  ere  men  pray  to  thee 
Thou  go'st  before  in  thy  benignity, 
The  light  to  us  vouchsafing  of  thy  prayer, 
To  be  our  guide  unto  thy  Son  so  dear. 


TJTE   rmOHESS'S  TALE. 


255 


■«Mj  knowledge  is  so  weak,   O   blissful 

queen  ! 
To  tell  abroad  thy  mighty  worthiness, 
That  I  the  weight  of  it  may  not  sustain  ; 
But  as  a  child  of  twelve  months  old  or  less, 
That  laboureth  his  language  to  express, 
Even  so  fare  I  ;  and  therefore,  I  thee  pray, 
Guide  thou  my  song  which  I  of  theeshallsay. 

"  There  was  in  Asia,  in  a  mighty  town, 
'Mong  Christian  folk,  a  street  where  Jews 

might  be  ;  [own 

Assigned  to  them  and  given  them  for  their 
By  a  great  lord,  for  gain  and  usury, 
Hateful  to  Christ  and  to  his  company; 
And  through  this  street  who  list  might  ride 

and  wend ; 
Free  was  it,  and  unbarred  at  either  end. 

"A  little  school  of  Christian  people  stood 
Down  at  the  farther  end,  in  which  there  were 
A  nest  of  children  come  of  Christian  blood, 
That  learned  in  that  school  from  year  to  year 
Such  sort  of  doctrine  as  men  used  there, 
That  is  to  say,  to  sing  and  read  also 
As  little  children  in  their  childhood  do. 

"Among  these  children  was  a  widow's  son, 
A  little  scholar,  scarcely  seven  years  old, 
Who  day  by  day  unto  his  school  hath  gone, 
And  eke,  when  he  the  image  did  b^lioia 
Of  Jesu's  mother,  as  he  had  been  told, 
This  child  was  wont  to  kneel  adown  and  say 
Ave  Marie,  as  he  goeth  by  the  way. 

"  This  widow  thus  her  little  son  hath  taught 
Our  blissful  lady,  Jesu's  mother  dear, 
To  worship  aye,  and  he  forgat  it  not, 
For  simple  infant  hath  a  ready  ear. 
Sweet  is  his  holiness  of  youth  :  and  hence, 
Jailing  to  mind  this  matter  when  I  may, 
Aunt  Nicholas  in  my  presence standeth  aye, 
For  he  so  young  to  Christ  did  reverence. 

"  This  little  child,  while  in  the  school  he  sate 
His  primer  conning  with  an  earnest  cheer, 
The  whilst  the  rest  their  anthem  book  repeat 
The  Alma  Redetnptoris  did  he  hear  ; 
And  as  he  durst  he  drew  him  near  and  near, 
And  hearkened  to  the  words  and  to  the  note, 
Till  the  first  verse  he  learned  it  all  by  rote. 

"  This  Latin  knew  he  nothing  what  it  said, 
For  he  too  tender  was  of  age  to  know  ; 
But  to  his  comrade  he  repaired,  and  prayed 
That  he  the  meaning  of  this  song  would 

show, 
And  unto  him  declare  why  men  sing  so ; 


This  oftentimes,  that  he  might  be  at  ease, 
This  child  did  him  beseech  on  his  bare  knees. 

.- 

"  His  schoolfellow,  who  elder  was  than  he, 
Answered  him  thus:— 'This  song,  I\have 

heard  say, 
Was  fashioned  for  our  blissful  lady  free  ; 
Her  to  salute,  and  also  her  to  pray  % 

To  be  our  help  upon  our  dying  day. 
If  there  is  more  in  this,  I  know  it  not ; 
Song  do  I  learn, — small  grammar  I  have 

got.' 

"  '  And  is  this  song  fashioned  in  reverence 
Of  Jesu's  mother?'  said  this  Innocent, 
'  Now,  certes,  I  will  use  my  diligence 
To  con  it  all  ere  Christmas-tide  be  spent ; 
Although  I  for  my  primer  shall  be  sheut, 
And  shall  be  beaten  three  times  in  an  hour, 
Our  lady  I  will  praise  with  all  my  power.' 

"  His  schoolfellow,  whom  he  had  so  be- 
sought, 

As  they  went  homeward  taught  him  privily  ; 

And  then  he  sang  it  well  and  fearlessly, 

From  word  to  word  according  to  the  note : 

Twice  in  a  day  it  passed  through  his  throat  ; 

Homeward  and  srhoolward  whensoe'er  he 
went, 

On  Jesu's  mother  fixed  was  his  intent. 

"  Through  all  the  Jewry  (this  before  said  I,) 
This  little  child,  as  he  came  to  and  fro, 
Full  merrily  then  would  he  sing  and  cry, 
O  Alma  Redemptoris  !  high  and  low  : 
The  sweetness  of  Christ's  mother  pierced  so 
His  heart,  that  her  to  praise,  to  her  to  pray, 
He  cannot  stop  his  singing  by  the  way. 

"The serpent,  Satan, our  first  foe,  that  hath 
His  wasp's  nest  in  Jew's  heart,  upswelled — 

'  O  woe, 
O  Hebrew  people  !'  said  he  in  his  wrath, 
'  Is  it  an  honest  thing?     Shall  this  be  so? 
That  such  a  boy  where'er  he  lists  shall  go 
In  your  despite,  and  sing  his  hymns  and 

saws, 
Which  is  against  the  reverence  of  our  laws  > ' 

' '  From  that  day  forward  have  the  Jews 

conspired 
Out  of  the  world  this  innocent  to  chase; 
And  to  this  end  a  homicide  they  hired, 
That  in  an  alley  had  a  privy  place, 
And,  as  the  child  'gan  to  the  school  to  pace, 
This  cruel  Jew  him  seized, and  held  him  fait 
And  cut  his  throat,  and  in  a  pit  him  cast- 


256 


TEE  PRIORESS'S  TALE. 


"  I  say  that  him  into  a  pit  they  threw, 
A  loathsome  pit,   whence  noisome  scents 
e,xhale  ; 

0  cursed  folk !  away,  ye  Herods  new  ! 
What  may  your  ill  intentions  you  avail? 
Murder  will  out  ;  certes  it  will  not  fail  ; 
Know,  that  the  honour  of  high  God  may 

spread, 
*"*  The  blood  cries  out  on  your  accursed  deed. 

"  O  martyr  'stablished  in  virginity  ! 

Now  mayest  thou  sing  for  aye  before  the 

throne, 
Following  the  Lamb  celestial,"  quoth  she, 
:' Of  which  the  great  Evangelist  Saint  John, 
In  Patmos  wrote,  who  saith  of  them  that  go 
Before  the  Lamb  singing  continually, 
That  never  fleshly  woman  they  did  know. 

■'  Now  this  poor  widow  waiteth   all  that 

night 
After  her  little  child,  and  he  came  not  ; 
For  which,  by  earliest  glimpse  of  morning 

light  [thought 

With  face  all  pale  with  dread  and  busy 
She  at  the  school  and  elsewhere  him  hath 

sought, 
Until  thus  far  she  learned,  that  he  had  been 

1  n  the  Jews' street,  and  there  he  last  was  seen. 

"With  mother's  pity  in  her  breast  inclosed 
She  goeth  as  she  were  half  out  of  her  mind, 
To  every  place  wherein  she  hath  supposed 
By  likelihood  her  little  son  to  find  ; 
And  ever  on  Christ's  mother  meek  and  kind 
She  cried,  till  tc  the  Jewry  she  was  brought, 
And  him  among  the  accursed  Jews  she 
sought. 

"  She  asketh,  and  she  piteously  doth  pray 
To  every  Jew  that  dwelleth  in  that  place 
To  tell  her  if  her  child  had  passed  tha  way ; 
They  all  said  nay ;  but  Jesu  of  his  grace 
Gave  to  her  thought,  that  in  a  little  space 
She  for  her  son  in  that  same  spot  did  cry 
Where  he  was  cast  into  a  pit  hard  by. 

"  O  thou  great  God  that  dost  perform  thy 

laud 
By  mouths  of  innocents,  lo !  here  thy  might ; 
This  gem  of  chastity,  this  emerald, 
And  eke  of  martyrdom  this  ruby  bright, 
There,  where  with  mangled  throat  he  lay 

upright, 
The  Alma  Redemptoris  'gan  to  sing 
S  loud,  that  with  his  voice  the  place  did  ring. 


"The  Christian  folk  that  through  theJevMJ 

went 
Come  to  the  spot  in  wonder  at  the  thing  ; 
And  hastily  they  for  the  provost  sent  ; 
Immediately  he  came  not  tarrying, 
And  praiseth  Christ  that  is  our  heavenly 

king, 
And  eke  his  mother,  honour  of  mankind  : 
Which  done,  he  bade  that  they  the  Jews 

should  bind. 

"  This  child  with  piteous  lamentation  then 
Was  taken  up,  staging  his  song  alway  ; 
And  with  procession  great  and  pomp  of  men 
To  the  next  abbey  him  they  bare  away  ; 
His  mother  swooning  by  the  bier  lay  : 
And  scarcely  could  the  people  that  were  near 
Remove  the  second  Rachel  from  the  bier. 

"Torment  and  shameful  death  to  every  one 
This  provost  doth  for  those  bad  Jews  pre- 
pare 
That  of  this  murder  wist,  and  that  anon  : 
Such   wickedness    his    judgments    cannot 

spare  ; 
Who  will  do  evil,  evil  shall  he  bear  ; 
Them  therefore  with  wild  horses  did  he  draw, 
And  after  that  he  hung  them  by  the  law. 

"  Upon  his  bier  this  innocent  doth  lie 
2~f^re  the  altar  while  the  mass  doth  last: 
The  abbot  with  his  convent's  company 
Then  sped  themselves  to  bury  him  full  fast ; 
And,  when  they  holy  water  on  him  cast, 
Yet  spake  this  child  when  sprinkled  was  the 

water, 
And  sang,  O  Alma  Redemptoris  Mater  ! 

' '  This  abbot,  for  he  was  a  holy  man, 

As  all  monks  are,  or  surely  ought  to  be, 

In  supplication  to  the  child  began  ; 

Thus  saying,  '  O  dear  child  !    I  summon  thee 

In  virtue  of  the  holy  Trinity, 

Tell  me  the  cause  why  thou  dost  sing  this 

hymn, 
Since  that  thy  throat  is  cut,  as  it  doth  seem.' 

"  '  My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow,' 
Said  this  young  child, '  and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I  should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago  ; 
But  Jesus  Christ,  as  in  the  books  ye  find, 
Will  that  his  glory  last,  and  be  in  mind  ; 
And,  for  the  worship  of  his  mother  dear, 
Yet  may  I  sing,  O  Alma  !  loud  and  clear. 

"  '  This  well  of  mercy  Jesu's  mother  sweet 
After  my  knowledge  I  have  loved  alway, 
And  in  the  hour  when  l  my  death  did  meet 


TTTE  PRIORESS'S  TALh. 


2*7 


To  me  she  came,  and  thus  to  me  did  say, 
'  Thou  in  thy  dying  sing  this  holy  lay,' 
As  ye  have  heard  ;  and  soon  as  I  had  sung 
Methought  she  laid  a  grain  upon  my  tongue. 

"  '  Wherefore  I  sing,   nor  can  from  song 

refrain, 
In  honour  of  that  blissful  maiden  free, 
Till  from  my  tongue  off  taken  is  the  grain; 
And  after  that  thus  said  she  unto  me, 
'  My  little  child,  then  will  I  come  for  thee 
Soon  as  the  grain  from  oft"  thy  tongue  they 

take, 
Be  not  dismayed,  I  will  not  thee  forsake!' 

"This  holy  monk,  this  abbot — him  meanT, 
Touched  then  his  tongue,  and  took  away 

the  grain  ; 
And  he  gave  up  the  ghost  full  peacefully  ; 
And,  when  the  abbot  had  this  wonder  seen, 
His  salt  tears  trickled  down  like  showers  of 

rain, 


And  on  his  face  he  dropped  tipon  the  ground, 
And  still  he  lay  as  if  he  had  been  bound. 

"  Eke  the  whole  convent  on  the  pavement 

lay, 
Weeping  and  praising  Jesu's  mother  dear  ; 
And  after  that  they  rose,  and  took  their  way 
And  lifted  up  this  martyr  from  the  bier 
And  in  a  tomb  of  precious  marble  clear 
Inclosed  his  uncorrupted  body  sweet. — 
Where'er  he  be,  God  grant  us  him  to  meet ! 

"Young  Hugh  of  Lincoln  !  in  like  sort  laid 

low 
By  cursed  Jews— thing    well  and  widely 

known, 
For  not  long  since  was  dealt  the  cruel  blow, 
Pray  also  thou  for  us,  while  here  we  tarry, 
Weak  sinful  folk,  that  God  with  pitying  eye, 
In  mercy  would  his  mercy  multiply 
On  us,  for  reverence  of  his  mother  Man-  !" 


258 


%\t  Site  gubbon. 

A    SERIES    OF    SONNETS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  River  Duddon  rises  upon  Wrynose  Fell,  on  the  confines  of  Westmoreland,  Cumberland, 
and  Lancashire  ;  and,  serving  as  a  boundary  to  the  two  last  counties,  for  the  space  of  about 
twenty-five  miles,  enters  the  Irish  Sea,  between  the  Isle  of  Walney  and  the  Lordship  of  Milium. 


TO  THE  REV.  DR.  WORDSWORTH. 

WITH    THE    SONNETS    TO    THE    RIVER   DUDDON, 
AND   OTHER   POEMS    IN    THIS   COLLECTION.) 

The  minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves  ; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 
The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen, 
That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 

Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings  : 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze 

Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings  ; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 

And  who  but  listened  ? — till  was  paid 
Respect  to  every  inmate's  claim  : 
The  greeting  given,  the  music  played, 
In  honour  of  each  household  name, 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 
And  '"  Merry  Christmas"  wished  to  all  ! 

O  brother  !  I  revere  the  choice 
That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills  ; 
And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice  : 
Though  public  care  full  often  tills 
(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 
A  barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  thou,  with  me  and  min<% 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite  ; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 

A  true  revival  of  the  light, 

Which  nature,  and  these  rustic  powers, 

In  simple  childhood,  spread  through  ours  ! 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  tnese  expected  annual  rounds, 


Whether  the  rich  man's  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds, 
Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 
To  hear — and  sink  again  to  sleep  ! 
Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark, 
By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 
Of  self-complacent  innocence  ; 


The  mutual  nod,— the  grave  disguise 

Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o'er : 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 

For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 

For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid  ! 


Ah  !  not  for  emerald  fields  alone, 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 

Than  fabled  Cytherea's  zone 

Glittering  before  the  Thunderer's  sight, 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared, 

The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared 


Hail,  ancient  manners  !  sure  defence, 
Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws  ; 
Remnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws  ; 
Hail,  usages  of  pristine  mould, 
And  ye,  that  guard  them,  mountains  old  ! 


Bear  with  me,  brother  !  quench  the  thought 

That  slights  this  passion,  or  condemns  ; 

If  thee  fond  fancy  ever  brought 

From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames, 

And  Lambeth's  venerable  towers, 

To  humbler  streams,  and  greener  bowers 


TEE  ETVL'U  DUDDON. 


259 


Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find, 

Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days  , 

Moments,  to  cast  a  look  behind, 

And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal, 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 


Hence,  while  the  imperial  city's  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  cai, 
A  pleased  attention  I  may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe, 
That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 
But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy  ! 


Not  envying  shades  which  haply  yet  may 

throw 
A  grateful  coolness  round  that  rocky  spring, 
Blandusia,  once  responsive  to  the  string 
Of  the  Horatian  lyre  with  babbling  flow  ; 
Careless  of  flowers  that  in  perennial  blow 
Round  the  moist  marge  of  Persian  foun- 
tains cling  ; 
Heedless  of  Alpine  torrents  thundering 
Through  icy  portals  radiant  as  heaven's 

bow  ; 
I  seek  the  birthplace  of  a  native  stream. 
All  hail,  ye  mountains  !  hail,  thou  morning 

light  ! 
Better  to  breathe  upon  this  aery  height 
Than  pass  in  needless  sleep  from  dream  to 
dream  :  Land  bright, 

Pure  flow  the  verse,   pure,   vigorous,    free, 
For  Duddon,   long-loved  Duddon  is  my 
theme ! 


Child  of  the  clouds  !  remote  from  every 

taint 
Of  sordid  industry  thy  lot  is  cast  ; 
Thine  are  the  honours  of  the  lofty  waste  ; 
Not  seldom,   when  with  heat   the   valleys 

faint,  [quaint 

Thy  hand-maid  frost  with  spangled  tissue 
Thy  cradle  decks  ;  to  chant  thy  birth  thou 

hast 
No  meaner  poet  than  the  whistling  blast, 
And  desolation  is  thy  patron-saint ! 
She  guards  thee,  ruthless  power!  who  would 

not  spare 
Those  mighty  forests,  once  the  bison's  screen, 
Where  stalked  the  huge  deer  to  his  shaggy 

lair*  [sombre  green, 

Through    paths    and    alleys   roofed   with 
Thousands  of  years  before  the  silent  air 
Was  pierced  by  whizzing  shaft  of  hunter 

keen  ! 


•  The  deer  alluded  to  Is  the  Leigh,  a  gigantic 
species  long  since  extinct. 


How  shall  I  paint  thee  ?— Be  this  naked 

stone 
My  seat  while  I  give  way  to  such  intent  ; 
Pleased  could  my  verse,  a  speaking  moniv 

ment,  [known 

Make   to   the   eyes   of    men   thy   features 
But  as  of  all  those  tripping  lambs  not  one 
Outruns  his  fellows,  so  hath  nature  lent 
To  thy  beginning  naught  that  doth  present 
Peculiar  grounds  for  hope  to  build  upon. 
To  dignify  the  spot  that  gives  thee  birth, 
No  sign  of  hoar  antiquity's  esteem 
Appears,    and   none   of  modern   fortune's 

care ;  [gleam 

Yet  thou  thyself  hast  round  thee  shed  a 
Of  brilliant  moss,   instinct  with  freshness 

rare  ;  [earth  ! 

Prompt    offering    to    thy    foster-mother 


Take,  cradled  nursling  of  the  mountain, 

take 
This  parting  glance,  no  negligent  adieu  ! 
A  Protean  change  seems  wrought  while  1 

pursue  [make ; 

The  curves,  a  loosely-scattered  chain  doth 
Or  rather  thou  appear'st  a  glistering  snake, 
Silent,  and  to  the  gazer's  eye  untrue, 
Thridding  with  sinuous  lapse  the  rushes, 

through 
Dwarf  willows  gliding,  and  by  ferny  brake. 
Starts  from  a  dizzy  steep  the  undaunted  rill 
Robed  instantly  in  garb  of  snow-white  foam ; 
And  laughing  dares  the  adventurer,   who 

hath  clomb 
So  high,  a  rival  purpose  to  fulfil ; 
Else  let  the  dastard  backward  wend,   nnd 

roam,  [will  ! 

Seeking  less  bold  achievement,  where  he 


Sole  listener,  Duddon  !  to  the  breeze  that 
played  [sound 

With  thy  clear  voice,  I  caught  the  fitful 
Wafted  o'er  sullen  moss  and  craggy  mound, 
Unfruitful  solitudes,  that  seemed  to  upbraid 


260 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


The  sun  in  heaven  ! — but  now,  to  form  a 

shade 
For  thee,  green  alders  have  together  wound 
Their    foliage ;    ashes    flung    their    arms 

around  ; 
And  birch-trees  risen  in  silver  colonnade. 
And  thou  hast  also  tempted  here  to  rise, 
'Mid  sheltering  pines,  this  cottage  rude  and 

grey  ; 
Whose  ruddy  children,  by  the  mother's  eyes 
Carelessly  watched,  sport  through  the  sum- 
mer day,  [May 
Thy  pleased  associates' — light  as  endless 
On  infant  bosoms  lonely  nature  lies. 


VI. 


FLOWERS. 

Ere  yet  our  course  was  graced  with  social 
trees  [bowers, 

It   lacked   not   old   remains   of   hawthorn 
Where  small  birds  warbled   to  their  para- 
mours ,  [bees ; 
And,    earlier  still,  was   heard   the  hum  of 
I  saw  them  ply  their  harmless  robberies, 
And  caught  the  fragrance  which  the  sundry 
flowers,                                      [showers, 
Fed   by   the    stream   with   soft   perpetual 
Plenteously  yielded  to  the  vagrant  breeze. 
There    bloomed    the    strawberry    of  the 
wilderness  ;                [sapphire  blue,  (i) 
The    trembling     eyebright     showed    her 
The  thyme   her  purple,    like   the  blush  of 

even  ; 
And,  if  the  breath  of  some  to  no  caress 
Invited,  forth  they  peeped  so  fair  to  view, 
All  kinds  alike  seemed  favourites  of  Heaven. 


"Change    me,    some     god,    into     that 

breathing  rose !" 
The  love-sick  stripling  fancifully  sighs, 
The  envied  flower,  beholding,  as  it  lies 
On  Laura's  breast,  in  exquisite  repose  ; 
Or  he  would  pass  into  her  bird,  that  throws 
The  darts  of  song  from  out  its  wiry  cage  ; 
Enraptured, — could  he  for  himself  engage 
The  thousandth   part  of  what  the  nymph 

bestows, 
And  what  the  little  careless  innocent 
Ungraciously  receives.  Too  daring  choice  ! 
There   are   whose  calmer   mind  it   would 

content 
To  be  an  unculled  floweret  of  the  glen, 
Fearless  of  plough  and  scythe  ;  or  darkling 

wren,  [voice. 

That  tunes  on  Duddon's  banks  her  slendrr 


VIII. 

What  aspect  bore  the  man  who  roved  or 
fled,  |  first 

First  of  his   tribe,  to  this  dark  dell — who 
In  this  pellucid  current  slaked  his  thirst? 
What  hopes  came  with  him  ?  what  designs 

were  spread 
Along  his  path?  His  unprotected  bed 
What    dreams    encompassed  ?     Was   the 

intruder  nursed 
In  hideous  usages,  and  rites  accursed, 
That  thinned  the   living  and  disturbed  the 
dead  ?  [mute  ; 

No   voice  replies  ; — the  earth,    the   air  is 
And    thou,     blue    streamlet,     murmuring 

yield'st  no  more 
Than  a  soft  record  that  whatever  fruit 
Of  ignorance  thou  mightst  witness  here- 
tofore, 
Thy  function  was  to  heal  and  to  restore, 
To  soothe  and  cleanse,  not  madden  and 
pollute ! 


THE  STEPPING-STONES. 

The  struggling  rill  insensibly  is  grown 
Into  a  brook  of  loud  and  stately  march, 
Crossed  ever  and  anon  by  plank  and  arch  ; 
And,  for  like  use,  lo  !  what  might  seem  a 

zone  [stone 

Chosen  for  ornament :  stone  matched  with 
In  studied  symmetry,  with  interspace 
For  the  clear  waters  to  pursue  their  race 
Without  restraint. — How  swiftly  have  they 

flown,  [child 

Succeeding  —  still  succeeding  !     Here  the 
Puts,  when  the  high-swoln  flood  runs  fierce 

and  wild,  [here 

His   budding  courage  to  the  proof ; — and 
Declining  manhood  learns  to  note  the  sly 
And  sure  encroachments  of  infirmity, 
Thinking  how  fast  time  runs,  life's  end  how 

near  ! 


THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 

Not  so  that  pair  whose  youthful  spirits 
dance 

With  prompt  emotion,  urging  them  to  pass, 

A  sweet  confusion  checks  the  shepherd-lass  ; 

Blushing  she  eyes  the  dizzy  flood  askance, — 

To  stop  ashamed — too  timid  to  advance  ; 

She  ventures  once  again — another  pause  ! 

His  outstretched  hand  he  tauntingly  with- 
draws— 

She  sues  for  help  with  piteous  utterance  I 


rm;  in  veii  duddon. 


261 


Chidden   she   chides   again  ;  the   thrilling 

touch  [aid : 

Both  feel  when  he  renews  the  wished-for 
Ah  !  if  their  fluttering  hearts  should  stir  too 

much 
Should   beat    too  strongly,    both   may  be 

betrayed. 
The  frolic  loves   who,  from  yon  high  rock, 

see 
The  struggle,  clap  (heir  wings  for  victory  ! 


XI. 


THE  FAERV  CHASM. 

No  fiction  was  it  of  the  antique  age  ; 

A  sky-blue  stone,  within  this  sunless  cleft, 

Is  of  the  very  footmaiks  unbereft 

Which  tiny  elves  impressed  ;  on  that  smooth 

stage 
Dancing  with  all  their  brilliant  equipage 
In  secret  revels — haply  after  theft 
Of  some  sweet   babe,    flower  stolen,   and 

coarse  weed  left 
For  tho  distracted  mother  to  assuage 
Her  grief  with,  as  she  might  ! — But,  where, 

oh  !  where 
Is  traceable  a  vestige  of  the  notes 
That  ruled  those  dances,  wild  in  character? 
Deep  underground  ? — Or  in  the  upper  air, 
On  the  shrill  wind  of  midnight?  or  where 

floats 
O'er  twilight  fields  the  autumnal  gossamer  ? 


HINTS  FOR  THE  FANCY. 

On,    loitering    muse  —  the    swift     stream 

chides  us — on  ! 
Albeit  his  deep-worn  channel  doth  immure 
Objects  immense  portrayed  in  miniature, 
Wild  shapesformany  astrange comparison! 
Niagaras,  Alpine  passes,  and  anon 
Abodes  of  Naiads,  calm  abysses  pure, 
Bright  liquid  mansions,  fashioned  to  endure 
When    the    broad   oak   drops,    a  leafless 

skeleton. 
And  the  solidities  of  mortal  pride, 
Palace  and  tower,  are  crumbled  into  dust  ! 
The  bard  who  walks  with    Duddon  for  his 

guide, 
Shall  find  such  toys  of  fancy  thickly  set  ;  — 
Turn  from  the  sight,  enamoured  muse — we 

must ; 
And,    if  thou  canst,    leave  them  without 

regret  ! 


OPEN  PROSPECT. 

I  lAiLto  the  fields — with  dwellings  sprinkled 

o'er, 
And  one  small  hamlet,  under  a  green  hill, 
Clustered  with  barn  and  byre,  and  spouting 

mill!  [more, 

A  glance  suffices  ;  —  should  we  wish  for 
(Jay  June  would  scorn  us  :  but  when  bleak 

winds  roar  [ash, 

Through  the  stiff  lance-like  shoots  of  pollard 
Dread  swell  of  sound  !  loud  as  the  gusts 

that  lash 
The  matted  forests  of  Ontario's  shore 
By  wasteful  steel  unsmitten,  then  would  I 
Turn  into  port, — and,  reckless  ol  the  gale 
Reckless  of  angry  Duddoi  sweeping  by. 
While  the  warm  hearth  exalts  the  mantling 

ale, 
Laugh  with  the  generous  household  heartily 
At  all  the  merry  pranks  of  Donnerdale  ! 

XIV. 

O  mountain  stream  !   the  shepherd  and 

his  cot 
Are  privileged  inmates  of  deep  solitude  ; 
Nor  would  the  nicest  anchorite  exclude 
A  field  or  two  of  brighter  green,  or  plot 
Of  tillage-ground,  that  seemeth  like  a  spot 
Of  stationary  sunshine  : — thou  hast  viewed 
These   only,    Duddon!    with   their    paths 

renewed  [not. 

By  fits  and  starts,  yet  this  contents  thee 
Thee  hath  some  awful   spirit  impelled  to 

leave, 
Utterly  to  desert,  the  haunts  of  men, 
Though  simple  thy  companions  were  and 

few  ;  [cleave 

And  through  this  wilderness  a  passage 
Attended  but  by  thy  own  voice,  save  when 
The  clouds  and  fowls  of  the   air  thy  way 

pursue  ! 


From  this  deep  chasm — where  quivering 

sunbeams  play 
Upon  its  loftiest  crags — mine  eyes  behold 
A  gloomy     niche,    capacious,    blank,    and 

cold  ;  [gray  ; 

A  concave   free  from  shrubs   and   mosses 
In  semblance  fresh,  as  if,  with  dire  affray, 
Some  statue,  placed  amid  these  regions  old 
For  tutelary  service,  thence  had  rolled, 
Startling  the  flight  of  timid  yesterday  ! 
Was    it    by   mortals   sculptured?  —  weary 

slaves 


262 


THE  BIVEB  DUDDON. 


Of  slow  endeavour  !  or  abruptly  cast 
Into  rude  shape  by  fire,  with  roaring  blast 
Tempestuously  let  loose  from  central  caves? 
Or  fashioned  by  the  turbulence  of  waves, 
Then,    when  o'er  highest  hills  the  deluge 
past? 


AMERICAN   TRADITION. 

Such    fruitless   questions  may    not  long 

beguile  [shows 

Or  plague  the   fancy,  'mid  the  sculptured 
Conspicuous  yet  where  Oroonoko  flows  ; 
There  would  the  Indian  answer  with  a  smile 
Aimed  at  the  white  man's   ignorance,  the 

while 
Of  the  Great  Waters  telling  how  they  rose, 
Covered  the  plains,  and,  wandering  where 

they  chose, 
Mounted  through  every  intricate  defile, 
Triumphant. — Inundation  wide  and  deep, 
O'er  which  his   fathers  urged,  to  ridge  and 

steep 
Else  unapproachable,  their  buoyant  way  ; 
And  carved,    on   mural  cliff's  undreaded 

side, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,    and  beast  of  chase 

or  prey  ; 
Whate'er  they  sought,  shunned,  loved,  or 

deified  !* 


RETURN. 

A  dark  plume  fetch  me  from  yon  blasted 
yew,  [croaks  ; 

Perched  on  whose   top  the    Danish  raven 
Aloft,  the  imperial  bird  of  Rome  invokes 
Departed  ages,  shedding  where  he  flew 
Loose    fragments   of    wild    wailing,    that 
bestrew  [rocks, 

The  clouds,  and  thrill  the  chambers  of  the 
And  into  silence  hush  the  timorous  flocks, 
That,  calmly  couching  while  the  nightly  dew 
Moistened  each  fleece,  beneath  the  twink- 
ling stars 
Slept  amid   that  lone  camp  on  Hardknot's 

height, 
Whose  guardians  bent  the  knee  to  Jove  and 

Mars  : 
Or,  near  that  mystic  round  of  Druid  frame 
Tardily  sinking  by  its  proper  weight 
Deep  into  patient  earth,  from  whose  smooth 
breast  it  came  1(2) 


*  See  Humboldt's  Personal  Narrative. 


XVIII. 
SEATHWAITE  CHAPEL. 

Sacred  religion,    "mother  of  form  and 

fear," 
Dread  arbitress  of  mutable  respect. 
New  rites   ordaining,    when  the  old  are 

wrecked, 
Or  cease  to  please  the  fickle  worshipper  ; 
If  one  strong  wish  may  be  embosomed  here, 
Mother  of  love  !  for  this  deep  vale,  protect 
Truth's  holy  lamp,   pure  source  of  bright 

effect, 
Gifted  to  purge  the  vapoury  atmosphere 
That  seeks  to  stifle  it ; — as  in  those  days 
When  this  low  pile  a  gospel  teacher  knew, 
Whose    good   works    formed   an    endless 

retinue  :t 
Such  priest  as  Chaucer  sang  in  fervent  lays  ; 
Such  as  the  Heaven-taught  skill  of  Herbert 

drew  ;  [less  praise  ! 

And  tender  Goldsmith  crowned  with  death- 


TRIBUTARY  STREAM. 

My  frame  hath  often  trembled  with  delight 
When    hope   presented   some    far-distant 

good,  [the  flood 

That  seemed  from  Heaven  descending,  like 
Of  yon  pure  waters,  from  their  aery  height 
Hurrying  with  lordly  Duddon  to  unite  ; 
Who,  'mid  a  world  of  images  imprest 
On  the  calm  depth  of  his  transparent  breast, 
Appears  to  cherish  most  that  torrent  white, 
The  fairest,  softest,  liveliest  of  them  all ! 
And  seldom  hath  ear  listened  to  a  tune 
More  lulling  than  the  busy  hum  of  noon, 
Swoln    by    that   voice  —  whose    murmur 

musical 
Announces  to  the  thirsty  fields  a  boon 
Dewy  and  fresh,  till  showers  again  shall  fall. 


THE  PLAIN  OF  DONNERDALE. 

The  old  inventive  poets,  had  they  seen, 
Or  ratherfelt,  the  entrancement  that  detains 
Thy  waters,  Duddon  !  'mid  these  flowery 

plains, 
The  still  repose,  the  liquid  lapse  serene, 
Transferred  to  bowers  imperishably  green, 
Had  beautified  Elysium  !  But  these  chains 


t  See  Note  to  Sonnet  xvii. 


THE  RTYEB  DUDDON. 


263 


Will   soon  be  broken  ; — a   rough    course 

remains, 
Rough  as  the  past  ;  where  thou,  of  placid 

mien, 
Innocuous  as  a  firstling  of  the  flock, 
And  countenanced  like  a  soft  cerulean  sky, 
Shalt  change  thy  temper  ;  and,  with  many 

a  shock 
Given  and  received  in  mutual  jeopardy, 
Dance  like  a  Bacchanal,  from  rock  to  rock, 
Tossing  her  frantic  thyrsus  wide  and  high  ! 


WHENCE  that  low  voice? — A  whisper  from 

the  heart, 
That  told  of  days  long  past,  when  here  I 

roved 
With  friends  and  kindred  tenderly  beloved  ; 
Some  who  had  early  mandates  to  depart, 
Yet  are  allowed  to  steal  my  path  athwart 
By  Duddon's  side  ;  once  more  do  we  unite> 
Once  more  beneath  the  kind  earth's  tran- 
quil light ; 
And  smothered  joys  into  new  being  start. 
From  her  unworthy  seat,  the  cloudy  stall 
Of  time,  breaks  forth  triumphant  Memory; 
Her  glistening  tresses  bound,  yet  light  and 

.  free 
As  golden  locks  of  birch,  that  rise  and  fall 
On  gales  that  breathe  too  gently  to  recal 
Aught  of  the  fading  year's  inclemency  ! 


TRADITION. 

A  love-lorn  maid,  at  some  far-distant 

time, 
Came  to  this  hidden  pool,  whose  depths 

surpass 
In  crystal  clearness  Dian's  looking-glass; 
And,  gazing,  saw  that  rose,  which  from  the 

prime 
Derives  its  name,  reflected  as  the  chime 
Of  echo  doth  reverberate  some  sweet  sound : 
The  starry  treasure  from  the  blue  profound 
She  longed  to  ravish  ;— shall  she  plunge, 

or  climb 
The  humid  precipice,  and  seize  the  guest 
Of  April,  smiling  high  in  upper  air? 
Desperate   alternative  I    what  fiend  could 

dare 
To  prompt  the  thought  ? — Upon  the  steep 

rock's  breast 
I  he  lonely  primrose  yet  renews  its  bloom, 
Untouched  memento  of  her  hapless  doom  ! 


8HEEP-WASHINO. 

Sad  thoughts,  avaunt ! — the  favour  of  the 
year,  [invites 

Poured  on   the   fleece-encumbered   flock, 
To  laving  currents,  for  prelusive  rites 
Duly  performed  before  the  dalesmen  shear 
Their  panting  charge.     The  distant  moun- 
tains hear, 
Hear  and  repeat,  the  turmoil  that  unites 
Clamour  of  boys  with  innocent  despites 
Of  barking  dogs,  and  bleat  ings  from  strange, 
fear.  [receive 

Meanwhile,    if    Duddon's   spotless   breast 
Unwelcome  mixtures  as  the  uncouth  noise 
Thickens,  the  pastoral  river  will  forgive 
Such   wrong ;    nor  need    wc    blame    the 

licensed  joys, 
Though  false  to  nature's  quiet  equipoise  : 
Frank  are  the  sports,  the  stains  are  fugitive. 


THE   RESTING-PLACE. 

Mid-noon  is  past ; — upon  the  sultry  mead 
No  zephyr  breathes,  no  cloud  its  shadow 

throws  : 
If  we  advance  unstrengthened  by  repose, 
Farewell  the  solace  of  the  fragrant  reed  ! 
This    nook,    with    woodbine    hung    and 

straggling  weed, 
Tempting  recess  as  ever  pilgrim  chose, 
Half  grot,  half  arbour,  proffers  to  inclose 
Body  and  mind  from  molestation  freed, 
In  narrow  compass — narrow  as  itself  : 
Or  if  the  fancy,  too  industrious  elf, 
Be  loth   that  we   should  breathe   a  while 

exempt 
From  new  incitements  friendly  to  our  task, 
There  wants  not  stealthy  prospect,  that 

may  tempt 
Loose  idless  to  forego  our  wily  mask. 


METHINKS  'twere  no  unprecedented  feat 
Should  some  benignant  minister  of  air 
Lift,  and  incircle  with  a  cloudy  chair, 
The  one  for  whom  my  heart  shall  ever  beat 
With  tenderest  love  ; — or,  if  a  safer  scat 
Atween   his   downy   wings   be  furnished, 
there  [bear 

Would  lodge  her,  and  the  cherished  burden 
O'er  hill  and  valley  to  this  dim  retreat  1 

U 


264 


THE  RIYE3  DUDDON. 


Rough  ways  my  steps  have  trod  ;  too  rough 

and  long  [ease  : 

For  her  companionship  ;  here  dwells  soft 
With  sweets  which  she  partakes  not  some 

distaste  [wrong ; 

Mingles,    and    lurking    consciousness    of 
Languish  the  flowers  ;  the  waters  seem  to 

waste 
Their  vocal  charm  ;  their  sparklings  cease 

to  please. 


Return,  content  !  for  fondly  I  pursued, 
Even  when  a  child,  the  streams — unheard, 

unseen  ;  [between  ; 

Through  tangled  woods,  impending  rocks 
Or,  free  as  air,  with  flying  inquest  viewed 
The  sullen   reservoirs   whence   their  bold 

brood,  [keen, 

Pure  as  the  morning,  fretful,   boisterous, 
Green  as  the  salt-sea  billows,  white  and 

green, 
Poured  down  the  hills,  a  choral  multitude  ! 
Nor  have  I  tracked  their  course  for  scanty 

gains  ;  [j°ys> 

They  taught  me  random  cares  and  truant 
That  shield   from   mischief  and  preserve 

from  stains  [of  boys  ; 

I'ague  minds,  while  men  are  growing  out 
Maturer  fancy  owes  to  their  rough  noise 
Impetuous  thoughts  that  brook  not  servile 

reins. 

XXVII. 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a  shapeless  heap, 
Or  quietly  self-buried  in  earth's  mould, 
Is  that  embattled  house,  whose  massy  keep 
I'lung  from  yon  cliff  a  shadow  large  and 

cold.— 
There  dwelt  the  gay,  the  bountiful,  thebold, 
Till  nightly  lamentations,  like  the  sweep 
Of  winds — though  winds  were  silent,  struck 

a  deep 
And  lasting  terror   through   that  ancient 

hold. 
Its  line    of  warriors   fled  ; — they   shrunk 

when  tried 
By  ghostly  power  : — but  Time's  unsparing 

hand 
Hath  plucked  such  foes,  like  weeds,  from 

out  the  land  ; 
And  now,  if  men  with  men  in  peace  abide, 
All  other  strength  the  weakest  may  with- 
stand, 
All  worse  assaults  may  safely  be  defied. 


JOURNEY    RENEWED. 

I  ROSE  while  yet  the  cattle,  heat-opprest. 
Crowded  together  under  rustling  trees, 
Brushed  by  the  current  of  the  water-breeze; 
And  for  their  sakes,   and  love  of  all  that 

rest, 
OnDuddon's  margin,  in  the  sheltering  nest; 
For  all  the  startled  scaly  tribes  that  slink 
Into  his  coverts,  and  each  fearless  link 
Of  dancing  insects  forged  upon  his  breast ; 
For  these,  and  hopes  and  recollections  worn 
Close  to  the  vital  seat  of  human  clay  ; 
Glad  meetings, — tender  partings— that  up- 

stay  [sworn 

The  drooping  mind  of  absence,  by  vows 
In    his   pure   presence   near   the    trysting 

thorn  ; 
I  thanked  the  leader  of  my  onward  way. 


XXIX. 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance, 
Horse  charging  horse,  'mid  these  retired 

domains ;  [veins 

Tells  that  their  turf  drank  purple  from  the 
Of  heroes  fallen,  or  struggling  to  advance, 
Till  doubtful  combat  issued  in  a  trance 
Of  victory,  that  struck  through  heart  and 

reins, 
Even  to  the  inmost  seat  of  mortal  pains, 
And  lightened  o'er  the  pallid  countenance. 
Yet,  to  the  loyal  and  the  brave,  who  lie 
In  the  black  earth,  neglected  and  forlorn, 
The  passing  winds  memorial  tribute  pay  ; 
The  torrents  chant  their  praise,  inspiring 

scorn 
Of  power  usurped  with  proclamation  high, 
And  glad  acknowledgment  of  lawful  sway. 


Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes 

divorce 
Of  that  serene  companion — a  good  name, 
Recovers  not  his  loss;  but  walks  with  shame, 
With  doubt,    with    fear,  and    haply  with 

remorse. 
And  oft-times  he,  who,  yielding  to  the  force 
Of  chance  temptation,  ere  his  journey  end, 
From   chosen  comrade   turns,    or  faithful 

friend, 
In  vain  shall  rue  the  broken  intercourse. 
Not  so  with  such  as  loosely  wear  the  chain 


THE  RIVER  BUBBON. 


265 


rhat   binds  them,    pleasant  river  !  to  thy 
side  : —  [hasty  stride, 

Through  the  rough  copse  wheel  thou  with 
1  choose  to  saunter  o'er  the  grassy  plain, 
Sure,  when  the  separation  has  been  tried, 
That  we,  who  part  in  love,  shall  meet  again. 

XXXI. 

The  Kirk  of  L'lpha  to  the  pilgrim's  eye 
Is  welcome  as  a  Mar,  thai  doth  present 
Its  shining  forehead  through  the  peaceful 

rent 
Of  a  black  cloud  diffused  o'er  half  the  sky  : 
Or  as  a  fruitful  palm-tree  towering  high 
O'er  the  parched  waste  beside  an  Arab's 

tent  ;  [ward  bent, 

Or  the  Indian  tree  whose  branches,  down- 
Take  root  again,  a  boundless  canopy. 
How  sweet  were  leisure  !  could  it  yield  no 

more  [to  reeline, 

Than  'mid  that  wave-washed  churchyard 
from  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts 

divine  ; 
Or  there  to  pace,  and  mark  the  summits  hoar 
Of  distant  moon-lit  mountains  faintly  shine, 
Soothed  by  the  unseen  river's  gentle  roar. 

XXXII. 

Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep ; 
Lingering  no  more  'mid  flower-enamelled 

lands 
And  blooming  thickets  ;  nor  by  rocky  bands 
Held  ;— but  in  radiant  progress  toward  the 

deep 
Where  mightiest  rivers  into  powerless  sleep 
Sink,   and  forget  their  nature  ;—>iow  ex- 
pands 
Majestic  Duddon,  over  smooth  flat  sands 
Gliding  in  silence  with  unfettered  sweep  ! 
Beneath  an  ampler  sky  a  region  wide 
Is  opened  round  him  : — hamlets,  tow:ers, 

and  towns,  [afar  ;  ' 

And  blue-topped  hills,  behold  him  from 
In  stately  mien  to  sovereign  Thames  allied 
Spreading  his  bosom  under  Kentish  downs, 
With  commerce  freighted,  or  triumphant 
war. 

XXXIIT. 
CONCLUSION. 

But  here  no  cannon  thunders  to  the  gale  ; 
Upon  the  wave  no  haughty  pendants  cast 
A  crimson  splendour  ;  lowly  is  the  mast 
That  rises  here,   and  humbly  spread  the 


While,  less  disturbed  than  in  the  narrow 

vale 
Through  which  with  strange  vicissitudes  he 

passed, 
The  wanderer  seeks  that  receptacle  vast 
Where  all  his  unambitious  functions  fail. 
And  may  thy  poet,  cloud-born  stream  !  be 

free, 
The  sweets  of  earth  contentedly  resigned, 
And  each  tumultuous  working  left  behind 
At  seemly  distance,  to  advance  like  thee, 
Prepared,    in  peace  of  heart,    in  calm  of 

mind 
And  soul,  to  mingle  with  eternity  ! 


AFTER-THOUGHT. 

I   thought  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my 

guide, 
As  being  past  away.     Vain  sympathies  ! 
For,  backward,  Duddon  !  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide  ; 
Still  glides  the  stream,  and  shall  not  cease 

to  glide  ; 
The  form  remains,  the  function  never  dies  ; 
While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the 

wise, 
We  men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ; — be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have 

power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour  ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through   love,  through  hope,   and  faith's 

transcendant  dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know.  (3) 


POSTSCRIPT. 

A  Poet,  whose  works  are  not  yet  known  as  they 
deserve  to  be,  thus  enters  upon  his  description 
of  the  "  Ruins  of  Rome :" 

"  The  rising  sun 
Flames  on  the  ruins  in  the  purer  air 
Towering  aloft  ;" 

and  ends  thus— 

"  The  setting  sun  displays 
His  visible  great  round,  between  yon  towers, 
As  through  two  shady  cliffs." 

Mr.  Crowe,  in  his  excellent  loco-descriptive 
poem,  "  Lewesdon  Hill,"  is  still  more  expedi- 
tious, finishing  the  whole  on  a  May-morning, 
before  breakfast. 

"  To-morrow  for  severer  thought,  but  now 
To  breakfast,  and  keep  festival  to-day." 


266 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


No  one  believes,  or  is  desired  to  believe,  that 
these  poems  were  actually  composed  within  such 
limits  of  time  ;  nor  was  there  any  reason  why  a 
prose  statement  should  acquaint  the  reader  with 
the  plain  fact,  to  the  disturbance  of  poetic  credi- 
bility. But,  in  the  present  case,  I  am  compelled 
to  mention,  that  the  above  series  of  sonnets  was 
the  growth  of  many  years ; — the  one  which 
stands  the  14th  was  the  first  produced;  and 
others  were  added  upon  occasional  visits  to  the 
stream,  or  as  recollections  of  the  scenes  upon  its 
banks  awakened  a  wish  to  describe  them.  In 
this  manner  I  had  proceeded  insensibly,  without 
perceiving  that  I  was  trespassing  upon  ground 
preoccupied,  at  least  as  far  as  intention  went, 
by  Mr.  Coleridge  ;  who,  more  than  twenty 
years  ago,  used  to  speak  of  writing  a  rural 
poem,  to  be  entitled  "  The  Brook,"  of  which  he 
has  given  a  sketch  in  a  recent  publication.  But 
a  particular  subject  cannot,  I  think,  much  inter- 
fere with  a  general  one  ;  and  I  have  been  further 
kept  from  encroaching  upon  any  right  Mr.  C. 
may  still  wish  to  exercise,  by  the  restriction 
which  the  frame  of  the  sonnet  imposed  upon  me, 
narrowing  unavoidably  the  range  of  thought, 
and  precluding,  though  not  without  its  advan- 
tages, many  graces  to  which  a  freer  movement 
of  verse  would  naturally  have  led. 

May  I  not  venture,  then,  to  hope,  that  instead 
of  being  a  hindrance,  by  anticipation  of  any  part 
of  the  subject,  these  sonnets  may  remind  Mr. 
Coleridge  of  his  own  more  comprehensive  de- 
sign, and  induce  him  to  fulfil  it? There  is  a 

sympathy  in  streams, — "one  calleth  to  another;" 
and,  I  would  gladly  believe,  that  "  The  Brook" 
will,  ere  long,  murmur  in  concert  with  "  The 
Duddon."  But,  asking  pardon  for  this  fancy,  I 
need  not  scruple  to  say,  that  those  verses  must 
indeed  be  ill-fated  which  can  enter  upon  such 
pleasant  walks  of  nature,  without  receiving  and 
giving  inspiration.  The  power  of  waters  over 
the  minds  of  poets  has  been  acknowledged  from 
the  earliest  ages  ; — through  the  "  Flumina  amem 
sylvasque  inglorius "  of  Virgil,  down  to  the 
sublime  apostrophe  to  the  great  rivers  of  the 
earth,  by  Armstrong,  and  the  simple  ejacula- 
tion of  Burns  (chosen,  if  I  recollect  right,  by 
Mr.  Coleridge,  as  a  motto  for  his  embryo 
"  Brook"), 

"  The  Muse  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learned  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 
And  na'  think  lang." 


NOTES. 

Note  1.  Sonnet  vi. 

"  There  bloomed  the  strawberry  of  the  wilder- 
ness, [blue." 
The  trembling  eyebright  showed  her  sapphire 

These  two  lines  are  in  a  great  measure  taken 
from  "  The  Beauties  of  Spring,  a  Juvenile 
Poem,"  by  the  Rev.  Joseph  Symson,  author  of 
"  The  Vision  of  Alfred,"  etc.     He  was  a  native 


of  Cumberland,  and  was  educated  in  the  vale  o\ 
Grasmere,  and  at  Hawkshead  school :  his  poems 
are  little  known,  but  they  contain  passages  of 
splendid  description  ;  and  the  versification  of  his 
"  Vision  of  Alfred  "  is  harmonious  and  animated. 
In  describing  the  motions  of  the  sylphs,  that 
constitute  the  strange  machinery  of  this  poem, 
he  uses  the  following  illustrative  simile  : — 

"  Glancing  from  their  plumes 
A  changeful  light  the  azure  vault  illumes 
Less  varying  hues  beneath  the  pole  adorn 
The  streamy  glories  of  the  boreal  morn, 
That  wavering  to  and  fro  their  radiance  shed 
On  Bothnia's  gulf  with  glassy  ice  o'erspread, 
Where  the  lone  native,  as  he  homeward  glides, 
On  polished  sandals  o'er  the  imprisoned  tides, 
And  still  the  balance  of  his  frame  preserves, 
Wheeled  on  alternate  foot  in  lengthening  curves, 
Sees  at  a  glance,  above  him  and  below, 
Two  rival  heavens  with  equal  splendour  glow. 
Sphered  in  the  centre  of  the  world  he  seems: 
For  all  around  with  soft  effulgence  gleams  ; 
Stars,  moons,  and  meteors,  ray  oppose  to  ray, 
And<  solemn  midnight  pours  the  blaze  of  day." 

He  was  a  man  of  ardent  feeling,  and  his  facul- 
ties of  mind,  particularly  his  memory,  were  ex- 
traordinary. Brief  notices  of  his  life  ought  to 
find  a  place  in  the  history  of  Westmoreland. 

Note  2.   Sonnet  xvii. 

The  eagle  requires  a  large  domain  for  its  sup- 
port ;  but  several  pairs,  not  many  years  ago, 
were  constantly  resident  in  this  country,  building 
their  nests  in  the  steeps  of  Borrowdale,  Wast- 
dale,  Ennerdale,  and  on  the  eastern  side  of  Hel- 
vellyn.  Often  have  I  heard  anglers  speak  of 
the  grandeur  of  their  appearance,  as  they  ho- 
vered over  Red  Tarn,  in  one  of  the  coves  of  this 
mountain.  The  bird  frequently  returns,  but  is 
always  destroyed.  Not  long  since,  one  visited 
Rydal  Lake,  and  remained  some  hours  near  its 
banks  :  the  consternation  which  it  occasioned 
among  the  different  species  of  fowl,  particularly 
the  herons,  was  expressed  by  loud  screams. 
The  horse  also  naturally  is  afraid  of  the  eagle. — 
There  were  several  Roman  stations  among 
these  mountains  ;  the  most  considerable  seems 
to  have  been  in  a  meadow  at  the  head  of  Win- 
dermere, established,  undoubtedly,  as  a  check 
over  the  passes  of  Kirkstone,  Dunmail-raise,  and 
of  Hardknot,  and  Wrynose.  On  the  margin  of 
Rydal  Lake,  a  coin  of  Trajan  was  discovered 
very  lately. — The  Roman  Fort  here  alluded  to, 
called  by  the  country  people  "  Hardknot  Cas- 
tle," is  most  impressively  situated  half-way 
down  the  hill  on  the  right  of  the  road  that  de- 
scends from  Hardknot  into  Eskdale.  It  has  es- 
caped the  notice  of  most  antiquaries,  and  is  but 
slightly  mentioned  by  Lysons. — The  Druidical 
Circle  is  about  half  a  mile  to  the  left  of  the  road 
ascending  Stone-side  from  the  vale  of  Duddon  : 
the  country  people  call  it  "Sunken  Church." 

The  reader  who  may  have  been  interested  in 
the  foregoing  sonnets  (which  together  may  be 
considered  as  a  poem),  will  not  be  displeased  to 
find  in  this  place  a  prose  account  of  the  Puddon, 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


267 


extracted  from  Green's  comprehensive  "Guide 
tu  the  Lakes,"  lately  published  :— "  The  road 
leading  from  Coniston  to  Broughton  is  over  high 

? round,  and  commands  a  view  of  the  river 
)uddon  ;  which,  at  high  water,  is  a  grand  sight, 
having  the  beautiful  and  fertile  lands  of  Lan- 
cashire and  Cumberland  stretching  each  way 
from  its  margin.  In  this  extensive  view,  the 
face  of  nature  is  displayed  in  a  wonderful  variety 
of  hill  and  dale,  wooded  grounds  and  buildings; 
amongst  the  latter,  Broughton  Tower,  seated  on 
the  crown  of  a  hill,  rising  elegantly  from  the 
valley,  is  an  object  of  extraordinary  interest. 
Fertility  on  each  side  is  gradually  diminished, 
and  lost  in  the  superior  heights  of  Blackcomb, 
in  Cumberland,  and  the  high  lands  between 
Kirkby  and  Ulverstone. 

"  The  road  from  Broughton  to  Seathwaite 
is  on  the  banks  of  the  Duddon,  and  on  its  Lan- 
cashire side  it  is  of  various  elevations.  The 
river  is  an  amusing  companion,  one  while  brawl- 
ing and  tumbling  over  rocky  precipices,  until 
the  agitated  water  becomes  again  calm  by  ar- 
riving at  a  smoother  and  less  precipitous  bed, 
but  its  course  is  soon  again  ruffled,  and  the 
current  thrown  into  every  variety  of  form 
which  the  rocky  channel  of  a  river  can  give 
to  water." 

After  all,  the  traveller  would  be  most  grati- 
fied who  should  approach  this  beautiful  stream, 
neither  at  its  source,  as  is  done  in  the  sonnets, 
nor  from  its  termination  ;  but  from  Coniston 
over  Walna  Scar  ;  first  descending  into  a  little 
circular  valley,  a  collateral  compartment  of  the 
long  winding  vale  through  which  flows  the 
Duddon.  This  recess,  towards  the  close  of 
September,  when  the  after-grass  of  the  meadows 
is  still  of  a  fresh  green,  with  the  leaves  of  many 
of  the  trees  faded,  but  perhaps  none  fallen,  is 
truly  enchanting.  At  a  point  elevated  enough 
to  show  the  various  objects  in  the  valley,  and 
not  so  high  as  to  diminish  their  importance,  the 
stranger  will  instinctively  halt.  On  the  fore- 
ground, a  little  below  the  most  favourable  station, 
a  rude  foot-bridge  is  thrown  over  the  bed  of  the 
noisy  brook  foaming  by  the  way-side.  Russet 
and  craggy  hills,  of  bold  and  varied  outline, 
surround  the  level  valley,  which  is  besprinkled 
with  grey  rocks  plumed  with  birch-trees.  A 
few  homesteads  are  interspersed,  in  some  places 
peeping  out  from  among  the  rocks  like  hermi- 
tages, whose  site  has  been  chosen  for  the  benefit 
of  sunshine  as  well  as  shelter  :  in  other  instances, 
the  dwelling-house,  barn,  and  byre,  compose 
together  a  cruciform  structure,  which,  with  its 
embowering  trees,  and  the  ivy  clothing  part  of 
the  walls  and  roof  like  a  fleece,  call  to  mind  the 
remains  of  an  ancient  abbey.  Time,  in  most 
cases,  and  nature  every  where,  have  given  a 
sanctity  to  the  humble  works  of  man,  that  are 
scattered  over  this  peaceful  retirement.  Hence 
a  harmony  of  tone  and  colour,  a  perfection  and 
consummation  of  beauty,  which  would  have 
fceen  marred  had  aim  or  purpose  interfered  with 
the  course  of  convenience,  utility,  or  necessity. 
1'his  unvitiated  region  stands  in  no  need  of  the 
led  of  twilight  to  soften  or  disguise  its  features. 
As  it  glutens  in  the  morning  sunshine,  it  would 


I  fill  the  spectator's  heart  with  gladsomeness. 
Looking  from  our  chosen  station,  he  would  feel 
I  an  impatience  to  rove  among  its  pathways,  to  be 
greeted  by  the  milkmaid,  to  wander  from  house 
to  house,  exchanging  "good-morrows"  as  he 
I  passed  the  open  doors;  but  at  evening,  when 
I  the  sun  is  set,  and  a  pearly  light  gleams  from 
the  western  quarter  of  the  sky,  with  an  answer- 
ing light  from  the  smooth  surface  of  the  mea- 
I  dows  ;  when  the  trees  are  dusky,  but  each  kind 
[  still  distinguishable  ;  when  the  cool  air  has  con- 
densed the  blue  smoke  rising  from  the  cottage- 
chimneys  ;  when  the  dark  mossy  stones  seem  to 
I  sleep  in  the  bed  of  the  foaming  brook  ;  then,  he 
'  would  be  unwilling  to  move  forward,  not  less 
I  from  a  reluctance  to  relinquish  what  he  beholds, 
than  from  an  apprehension  of  disturbing,  by  his 
approach,  the  quietness  beneath  him.  Issuing 
from  the  plain  of  this  valley,  the  brook  descends 
in  a  rapid  torrent,  passing  by  the  churchyard  of 
Seathwaite.  The  traveller  is  thus  conducted  at 
once  into  the  midst  of  the  wild  and  beautiful 
scenery  which  gave  occasion  to  the  sonnets  from 
the  14th  to  the  20th  inclusive.  From  the  point 
where  the  Seathwaite  Brook  joins  the  Duddon, 
i^  a  view  upwards,  into  the  pass  through  whk  |i 
the  river  makes  its  way  into  the  plain  of  Don- 
nerdale.  The  perpendicular  rock  on  the  right 
bears  the  ancient  British  name  of  the  Pen  ;  the 
one  opposite  is  called  Walla-barrow  Crag,  a 
name  that  occurs  in  several  places  to  designate 
rocks  of  the  same  character.  The  chaotic  as- 
pect of  the  scene  is  well  marked  by  the  ex- 
pression of  a  stranger,  who  strolled  out  while 
dinner  was  preparing,  and  at  his  return,  being 
asked  by  his  host,  "  What  way  he  had  been 
wandering?"  replied,  "  Asfar  as  it  isjinished !" 
The  bed  of  the  Duddon  is  here  strewn  with 
large  fragments  of  rocks  fallen  from  aloft ; 
which,  as  Mr.  Green  truly  says,  "are  happily 
adapted  to  the  many-shaped  water-falls"  (or 
rather  water-breaks,  for  none  of  them  are  high) 
"displayed  in  the  short  space  of  half  a  mile.' 
That  there  is  some  hazard  in  frequenting  these 
desolate  places,  I  myself  have  had  proof ;  foi 
one  night  an  immense  mass  of  rock  fell  upon  the 
very  spot  where,  with  a  friend,  I  had  lingered 
the  day  before.  "The  concussion,"  says  Mr. 
Green,  speaking  of  the  event  (for  he  also,  in 
the  practice  of  his  art,  on  that  day  sat  ex- 
posed for  a  still  longer  time  to  the  same  peril), 
"was  heard,  not  without  alarm,  by  the  neigh- 
bouring shepherds."  But  to  return  to  Sea- 
thwaite churchyard :  it  contains  the  following 
inscription  : — 

"  In  memory  of  the  Reverend  Robert 
Walker,  who  died  the  25th  June,  1802,  in  the 
93d  year  of  his  age,  and  67th  of  his  curacy  at 
Seathwaite. 

"  Also,  of  Anne  his  wife,  who  died  the  28th  of 
January,  in  the  93d  of  her  age.  " 

In  the  parish-register  of  Seathwaite  chapel,  is 
this  notice  : — 

"  Buried,  June  28th,  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker. 

He  was  curate  of  Seathwaite  sixty-six  years. 

He  was  a  man  singular  for  his  temperance,  in 

dustry,  and  integrity." 

This  individual  is  the  pastor  alluded  to,  in  the 


268 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


eighteenth  sonnet,  as  a  worthy  compeer  of  the 
country  parson  of  Chaucer,  etc.  In  the  Seventh 
Book  of  the  Excursion,  an  abstract  of  his  cha- 
racter is  given,  beginning— 

"  A  priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 
Fall  to  the  ground  :" 

»nd  some  account  of  his  life,  for  it  is  worthy  of 
being  recorded,  will  not  be  out  of  place  here. 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  ROBERT 
WALKER. 

In  the  year  1709,  Robert  Walker  was  born  at 
Under-Crag,  in  Seathwaite  :  he  was  the  young- 
est of  twelve  children.  His  eldest  brother,  who 
inherited  the  small  family  estate,  died  at  Under- 
Crag,  aged  ninety-four,  being  twenty-four  years 
older  than  the  subject  of  this  memoir,  who  was 
born  of  the  same  mother.  Robert  was  a  sickly 
infant  ;  and,  through  his  boyhood  and  youth  con- 
tinuing to  be  of  delicate  frame  and  tender  health, 
it  was  deemed  best,  according  to  the  country 
phrase,  to  Breed  him  a  scholar ;  for  it  was  not 
likely  that  he  would  be  able  to  earn  a  livelihood 
by  bodily  labour.  At  that  period  few  of  these 
dales  were  furnished  with  school-houses  ;  the 
children  being  taught  to  read  and  write  in  the 
chapel  ;  and  in  the  same  consecrated  building, 
where  he  officiated  for  so  many  years  both  as 
preacher  and  schoolmaster,  he  himself  received 
the  rudiments  of  his  education.  In  his  youth 
he  became  schoolmaster  at  Loweswater  ;  not 
being  called  upon,  probably,  in  that  situation,  to 
teach  mere  than  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic. 
But,  by  the  assistance  of  a  "gentleman  "  in  the 
neighbourhood,  he  acquired,  at  leisure  hours,  a 
knowledge  of  the  classics,  and  became  qualified 
for  taking  holy  orders.  Upon  his  ordination,  he 
had  the  offer  of  two  curacies  :  the  one,  Torver, 
in  the  vale  of  Coniston, — the  other,  Seathwaite, 
in  his  native  vale,  The  value  of  each  was  the 
same — viz.,  five  pounds  per  annum  :  but  the  cure 
of  Seathwaite  having  a  cottage  attached  to  it, 
as  he  wished  to  marry,  he  chose  it  in  preference. 
The  young  person  on  whom  his  affections  were 
fixed,  though  in  the  condition  of  a  domestic  ser- 
vant, had  given  promise,  by  her  serious  and 
modest  deportment,  and  by  her  virtuous  dispo- 
sitions, that  she  was  worthy  to  become  the  help- 
mate of  a  man  entering  upon  a  plan  of  life  such 
as  he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  By  her  fru- 
gality she  had  stored  up  a  small  sum  of  money, 
with  which  they  began  housekeeping.  In  1735 
or  1736,  he  entered  upon  his  curacy;  and  nine- 
teen years  afterwards  his  situation  is  thus  de- 
scribed in  some  letters  to  be  found  in  the  Annual 
.Register  for  1760,  from  which  the  following  is  ex- 
tracted :  — 

"To  Mr.  . 


"  Coniston,  July  26,  1754. 
'  Sir, — I  was  the  other  day  upon  a  partv  of 
pleasure,  about  five  or  six  miles  from  this  pface, 
where  I  met  with  a  very  striking  object,  and  of 
a  nature  not  very  common.  Going  into  a  clergy- 
man's house  (of  whom  I  had  frequently  heard)  I 


I  found  him  sitting  at  the  head  of  a  long  square 
I  table,  such  as  is  commonly  used  in  this  country 
by  the  lower  class  of  people,  dressed  in  a  coarse 
blue  frock,  trimmed  with  black  horn  buttons ;  a 
J  checked  shirt,  a  leathern  strap  about  his  neck 
1  for  a  stock,  a  coarse  apron,  and  a  pair  of  great 
I  wooden-soled  shoes,  plated  with  iron  to  preserve 
J  them  (what  we  call  clogs  in  these  parts),  with  a 
child  upon  his  knee,  eating  his  breakfast  :  his 
J  wife,   and  the  remainder  of  his  children,  were 
■  some  of  them  employed  in  waiting  on  each  other. 
I  the  rest  in  teazing  and  spinning  wool,  at  which 
trade  he  is  a  great  proficient ;  and  moreover, 
I  when  it  is  made  ready  for  sale,  will  lay  it  by  six- 
i  teen,  or  thirty-two  pounds  weight,  upon  his  back 
and    on   foot,   seven   or   eight   miles  will  carry 
it  to  the  market,  even  in  the  depth  of  winter 
I  I  was  not  much  surprised  at  all  this,  as  you  may 
possibly  be,   having  heard  a  great  deal  of  it  re- 
lated before.     But  I  must  confess  myself  asto- 
nished with  the  alacrity  and  the  good  humour 
that  appeared  both  in  the  clergyman  and  his 
wife,  and  more  so  at  the  sense  and  ingenuity  of 
the  clergyman  himself    ..." 

Then  follows  a  letter  from  another  person 
dated  1755,  from  which  an  extract  shall  be 
given  :  — 
I  "By  his  frugality  and  good  management,  he 
keeps  the  wolf  from  the  door,  as  we  say  ;  and  if 
he  advances  a  little  in  the  world,  it  is  owing 
1  more  to  his  own  care,  than  to  anything  else  he 
!  has  to  rely  upon.  I  don't  find  his  inclination  is 
running  after  further  preferment.  He  is  settled 
among  the  people,  that  are  happy  among  them- 
selves, and  lives  in  the  greatest  unanimity  and 
friendship  with  them  ;  and  I  believe  the  minister 
and  people  are  exceedingly  satisfied  with  each 
other  :  and  indeed  how  should  they  be  dissatis- 
fied when  they  have  a  person  of  so  much  worth 
and  probity  for  their  pastor  ?  A  man  who,  for 
his  candour  and  meekness,  his  sober,  chaste,  and 
virtuous  conversation,  his  soundness  of  principle 
and  practice,  is  an  ornament  to  his  profession, 
and  an  honour  to  the  country  he  is  in  ;  and  bear 
with  me  if  I  say,  the  plainness  of  his  dress,  the 
sanctity  of  his  manners,  the  simplicity  of  his 
doctrine,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  expression, 
have  a  sort  of  resemblance  to  the  pure  practice 
of  primitive  Christianity." 

We  will  now  give  his  own  account  of  himself 
to  be  found  in  the  same  place : — 

From  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker. 

"  Sir, — Yours  of  the  26th  instant  was  commu- 
nicated to  me  by  Mr.  C ,  and  I  should  have 

returned  an  immediate  answer,  but  the  hand  of 
Providence  then  lying  heavy  upon  an  amiable 
pledge  of  conjugal  endearment,  hath  since  taken 
from  me  a  promising  girl,  which  the  disconsolate 
mother  too  pensively  laments  the  loss  of ;  though 
we  have  yet  eight  living,  all  healthful,  hopeful, 
children,  whose  names  and  ages  are  as  follows  : 
Zaccheus,  aged  almost  eighteen  years  ;  Eliza- 
beth, sixteen  years  and  ten  months  ;  Mary,  fif. 
teen  ;  Moses,  thirteen  years  and  three  months ; 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


269 


Sarah,  ten  ye. us  and  throe  months  :  Mabel, 
eight  years  and  three  months  J  William  Tyson, 

three  years  and  eight  months;  and  Anne  Esther, 
.ine  year  and  three  months  ;  besides  Anne,  who 
died  two  years  and  six  months  ago,  and  was 
then  aged  between  nine  and  ten  ;  and  Eleanor, 
who  died  the  a  3rd  inst,  January,  aged  six  years 
and  ten  months.  Zaccheus,  the  eldest  child,  is 
BOW  learning  the  trade  of  a  tanner,  and  has  two 
years  and  a  half  of  his  apprenticeship  to  serve. 
The  annual  income  of  my  chapel  at  present,  as 
near  as  I  can  compute  it,  may  amount  to  about 
17/.  iar.,  of  which  is  paid  in  cash  :  vis.,  5/.  from 
the  bounty  of  Queen  Anne,  and  5/.  from  W.  P. 

Esq.  of  P ,  out  of  the  annual  rents,  he  being 

lord  of  the  manor,  and  3/.  from  the  several  in- 
habitants of  L ,  settled  upon  the  tenements 

as  a  rent-charge  ;  the  house  and  gardens  I  value 
at  4/.  yearly,  and  not  worth  more  :  and  I  believe 
the  surplice  fees  and  voluntary  contributions, 
one  year  with  another,  may  be  worth  3/  ;  but, 
as  the  inhabitants  are  few  in  number,  and  the 
fees  very  low,  this  last-mentioned  sum  consists 
merely  in  freewill  offerings. 

"  1  am  situated  greatly  to  my  satisfaction 
with  regard  to  the  conduct  and  behaviour  of  my 
auditory,  who  not  only  live  in  the  happy  igno- 
rance of  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  age,  but  in 
mutual  peace  and  goodwill  witli  one  another, 
and  are  seemingly  (I  hope  really  too)  sincere 
Christians,  and  sound  members  of  the  Esta- 
blished Church,  not  one  dissenter  of  any  deno- 
mination being  amongst  them  all.  I  got  to  the 
value  of  40/.  for  my  wile's  fortune,  but  had  no 
real  estate  of  my  own,  being  the  youngest  son 
of  twelve  children,  born  of  obscure  parents  ; 
and,  though  my  income  has  been  but  small,  and 
my  family  large,  yet  by  a  providential  blessing 
upon  my  own  diligent  endeavours,  the  kindness 
of  friends,  and  a  cheap  country  to  live  in,  we 
have  always  had  the  necessaries  of  life.  By  what 
I  have  written  (which  is  a  true  and  exact  account 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge)  I  hope  you  will 
not  think  your  favour  to  me,  out  of  the  late 
worthy  Dr.  Stratford's  effects,  quite  misbe- 
stowed,  for  which  I  must  ever  gratefully  own 
myself, 

"  Sir,  your  much  obliged  and  most  obedient 
humble  servant, 

"  R.  W.,  Curate  of  S . 

"  To  Mr.  C,  of  Lancaster." 


About  the  time  when  this  letter  was  written 
the  Bishop  of  Chester  recommended  the  scheme 
of  joining  the  curacy  of  Ulphato  the  contiguous 
one  of  Seathwaite,  and  the  nomination  was 
offered  to  Mr.  Walker  ;  but  an  unexpected  diffi- 
culty arising,  Mr.  W. ,  in  a  letter  to  the  Bishop 
(a  copy  of  which,  in  his  own  beautiful  hand- 
writing, now  lies  before  me),  thus  expresses  him- 
self :  If  he,"  meaning  the  person  in  whom  the 
difficulty  originated,  "  had  suggested  any  such 
objection  before,  I  should  utterly  have  declined 
any  attempt  to  the  curacy  of  Ulpha  :  indeed,  I 
was  always  apprehensive  it  might  be  disagree- 
able to  my  auditory  at  Seathwaite,  as  they  have 
been  always  accustomed  to  double  duty,  and 


the  inhabitants  of  Ulpha  despair  of  being  able 
to  support  a  schoolmaster  who  is  not  curate 
there  also  ;  which  suppressed  all  thoughts  111  me 
of  serving  them  both."  And  in  a  second  letter 
to  the  Bishop  he  writes  : — 

"My  Lord, — I  have  the  favour  of  yours  ol 
the  1st  instant,  and  am  exceedingly  obliged  oil 
account  of  the  Ulpha  affair  :  if  that  curacy 
|  should  lapse  into  your  Lordship's  hands,  1 
]  would  beg  leave  rather  to  decline  than  embrace 
jit;  for  the  chapels  of  Seathwaite  and  Ulpha 
!  annexed  together,  would  be  apt  to  cause  a  gene. 
I  ral  discontent  among  the  inhabitants  of  both 
I  places  ;  by  either  thinking  themselves  slighted, 
I  being  only  served  alternately  or  neglected  in 
I  the  duty,  or  attributing  it  to  covctousness  in 
I  me  ;  all  which  occasions  of  murmuring  I  would 
1  willingly  avoid."  And  in  concluding  his  former 
I  letter,  he  expresses  a  similar  sentiment  upon  the 
I  same  occasion,  "  desiring,  if  it  be  possible,  how- 
ever, as  much  as  in  me  lieth,  to  live  peaceably 
with  all  men." 

The  year  following,  the  curacy  of  Seathwaite 
was  again  augmented  ;  and,  to  effect  this  aug- 
mentation, fifty  pounds  had  been  advanced  by 
himself;  and,  in  1760,  lands  were  purchased 
with  eight  hundred  pounds.  Scanty  as  was  his 
income,  the  frequent  offer  of  lruch  better  bene- 
fices could  not  te:  ipt  Mr.  W.  to  quit  a  situation 
where  he  had  been  so  long  happy,  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  being  useful.  Among  his  papers  I 
find  the  following  copy  of  a  letter,  dated  1775. 
twenty  years  after  his  refusal  of  the  curacy  of 
Ulpha,  which  will  show  what  exertions  had  been 
made  for  one  of  his  sons  : — 

"May  it  please  your  Grace, — Our  remote 
situation  here  makes  it  difficult  to  get  the  neces- 
sary information  for  transacting  business  regu- 
larly ;  such  is  the  reason  of  my  giving  your 
Grace  the  present  trouble. 

"  The  bearer  (my  son)  is  desirous  of  offering 
himself  candidate  for  deacon's  orders  at  your 
Grace's  ensuing  ordination  ;  the  first,  on  the 
25th  instant,  so  that  his  papers  could  not  be 
transmitted  in  du"  time  As  he  is  now  fully  at 
age,  and  I  have  afforded  him  education  to  the 
utmost  of  my  ability,  it  would  give  me  great 
satisfaction  (if  your  Grace  would  take  him,  and 
find  him  qualified)  to  have  him  ordained.  His 
constitution  has  been  tender  for  some  years  ;  he 
entered  the  college  of  Dublin,  but  his  health 
would  not  permit  him  to  continue  there,  or  1 
would  have  supported  him  much  longer.  He- 
has  been  with  me  at  home  above  a  year,  in 
which  time  he  has  gained  great  strength  of 
body,  sufficient,  I  hope,  to  enable  him  for  per- 
forming the  function.  Divine  Providence,  as- 
sisted by  liberal  benefactors,  has  blest  my  en- 
deavours, from  a  small  income,  to  rear  a  nu- 
merous family  ;  and  as  my  time  of  life  renders 
me  now  unfit  for  much  future  expectancy  from 
this  world,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  my  son 
settled  in  a  promising  way  to  acquire  an  honest 
livelihood  for  himself.  His  behaviour,  so  far  in 
life,  has  been  irreproachable ;    and   I   hooe  he 


270 


THE  RIVEE  BTJBBON. 


will  not  degenerate,  in  principles  or  practice, 
from  the  precepts  and  pattern  of  an  indulgent 
parent.  Your  Grace's  favourable  reception  of 
this,  from  a  distant  corner  of  the  diocese,  and  an 
obscure  hand,  will  excite  filial  gratitude,  and  a 
due  use  shall  be  made  of  the  obligation  vouch- 
safed thereby  to 

"  Your  Grace's  very  dutiful  and  most 
"  obedient  Son  and  Servant, 

"  Robert  Walker." 

The  same  man,  who  was  thus  liberal  in  the  edu- 
cation of  his  numerous  family,  was  even  munificent 
in  his  hospitality  as  a  parish  priest.  Every  Sunday, 
■vere  served,  upon  the  long  table,  at  which  he 
has  been  described  sitting  with  a  child  upon  his 
knee,  messes  of  broth,  for  the  refreshment  of 
those  of  his  congregation  who  came  from  a  dis- 
tance, and  usually  took  their  seats  as  parts  of 
his  own  household.  It  seems  scarcely  possible 
that  this  custom  could  have  commenced  before 
the  augmentation  of  his  cure  ;  and  what  would 
to  many  have  been  a  high  price  of  self-denial, 
was  paid  by  the  pastor  and  his  family,  for  this 

f  ratification  ;  as  the  treat  could  only  be  provided 
y  dressing  at  one  time  the  whole,  perhaps,  of 
their  weekly  allowance  of  fresh  animal  food; 
consequently,  for  a  succession  of  days,  the  table 
was  covered  with  cold  victuals  only.  His  gene- 
rosity in  old  age  may  be  still  further  illustrated 
by  a  little  circumstance  relating  to  an  orphan 
grandson,  then  ten  years  of  age,  which  I  find  in 
a  copy  of  a  letter  to  one  of  his  sons  ;  he  requests 
that  half-a-guinea  may  be  left  for  "little 
Robert's  pocket-money,"  who  was  then  at 
school  ;  entrusting  it  to  the  care  of  a  lady,  who, 
as  he  says,  "  may  sometimes  frustrate  his  squan- 
dering it  away  foolishly,"  and  promising  to  send 
him  an  equal  allowance  annually  for  the  same 
purpose.  The  conclusion  of  the  same  letter  is 
so  characteristic,  that  I  cannot  forbear  to  tran- 
scribe it.  "  We,"  meaning  his  wife  and  himself, 
"  are  in  our  wonted  state  of  health,  allowing  for 
the  hasty  strides  of  old  age  knocking  daily  at 
our  door,  and  threateningly  telling  us,  we  are 
not  only  mortal,  but  must  expect  ere  long  to 
take  our  leave  of  our  ancient  cottage,  and  lie 
down  in  our  last  dormitory.  Pray  pardon  my 
neglect  to  answer  yours  ;  let  us  hear  sooner  from 
you,  to  augment  the  mirth  of  the  Christmas 
holidays.  Wishing  you  all  the  pleasures  of  the 
approaching  season,  I  am,  dear  son,  with  lasting 
sincerity,  yours  affectionately, 

"  Robert  Walker." 

He  loved  old  customs  and  usages,  and  in 
some  instances  stuck  to  them  to  his  own  loss  ; 
for,  having  had  a  sum  of  money  lodged  in  the 
hands  of  a  neighbouring  tradesman,  when  long 
course  of  time  had  raised  the  rate  of  interest, 
and  more  was  offered,  he  refused  to  accept  it ; 
an  act  not  difficult  to  one  who,  while  he  was 
drawing  seventeen  pounds  a  year  from  his 
curacy,  declined,  as  we  have  seen,  to  add  the 
profits  of  another  small  benefice  to  his  own,  lest 
he  should  be  suspected  of  cupidity.  — From  this 
vice  he  was  utterly  free  ;  he  made  no  charge  for 


teaching  school :  such  as  could  afford  to  pay, 
gave  him  what  they  pleased.  When  very  young, 
having  kept  a  diary  of  his  expenses,  however 
trifling,  the  large  amount,  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
surprised  him  ;  and  from  that  time  the  rule  of  his 
life  was  to  be  economical,  not  avaricious.  At  his 
decease  he  left  behind  him  no  less  a  sum  than 
2000/.  ;  and  such  a  sense  of  his  various  excellences 
was  prevalent  in  the  country,  that  the  epithet  of 
wonderful  is  to  this  day  attached  to  his  name. 

There  is  in  the  above  sketch  something  so  ex- 
traordinary as  to  require  further  explanatory 
details. — And  to  begin  with  his  industry  ;  eight 
hours  in  each  day,  during  five  days  in  the  week, 
and  half  of  Saturday,  except  when  the  labours 
of  husbandry  were  urgent,  he  was  occupied  in 
teaching.  His  seat  was  within  the  rails  of  the 
altar  ;  the  communion-table  was  his  desk  ;  and, 
like  Shenstone's  schoolmistress,  the  master  em- 
ployed himself  at  the  spinning-wheel,  while  the 
children  were  repeating  their  lessons  by  his  side. 
Every  evening,  after  school  hours,  if  not  more 
profitably  engaged,  he  continued  the  same  kind 
of  labour,  exchanging,  for  the  benefit  of  exercise, 
the  small  wheel,  at  which  he  had  sate,  for  the 
large  one  on  which  wool  is  spun,  the  spinner 
stepping  to  and  fro.  Thus  was  the  wheel  con 
stantly  in  readiness  to  prevent  the  waste  of  a 
moment's  time.  Nor  was  his  industry  with  the 
pen,  when  occasion  called  for  it,  less  eager.  En- 
trusted with  extensive  management  of  public  and 
private  affairs,  he  acted,  in  his  rustic  neighbour- 
hood, as  scrivener,  writing  out  petitions,  deeds 
of  conveyance,  wills,  covenants,  etc.  with  pecu- 
niary gain  to  nimself,  and  to  the  great  benefit  of 
his  employers.  These  labours  (at  all  times  con- 
siderable) at  one  period  of  the  year,  viz.  between 
Christmas  and  Candlemass,  when  money  trans- 
actions are  settled  in  this  country,  were  often  so 
intense,  that  he  passed  great  part  of  the  night, 
and  sometimes  whole  nights,  at  his  desk.  His 
garden  also  was  tilled  by  his  own  hand  ;  he  had 
a  right  of  pasturage  upon  the  mountains  for  a  feu 
sheep  and  a  couple  of  cows,  which  required  his 
attendance ;  with  this  pastoral  occupation,  he 
joined  the  labours  of  husbandry  upon  a  small 
scale,  renting  two  or  three  acres  in  addition  to 
his  own  less  than  one  acre  of  glebe  ;  and  the 
humblest  drudgery  which  the  cultivation  of  these 
fields  required  was  performed  by  himself. 

He  also  assisted  his  neighbours  in  haymaking 
and  shearing  their  flocks,  and  in  the  performance 
of  this  latter  service  he  was  eminently  dexterous. 
They,  in  their  turn,  complimented  him  with  the 
present  of  a  hay-cock,  or  a  fleece  ;  less  as  a  re- 
compense for  this  particular  service  than  as  a 
general  acknowledgment.  The  Sabbath  was  in  a 
strict  sense  kept  holy  ;  the  Sunday  evenings  being 
devoted  to  reading  the  Scripture  and  family 
prayer.  The  principal  festivals  appointed  by  the 
Church  were  also  duly  observed  ;  but  through 
every  other  day  in  the  week,  through  every  week 
in  the  year,  he  was  incessantly  occupied  in  work 
of  hand  or  mind  ;  not  allowing  a  moment  for  re- 
creation, except  upon  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
he  indulged  himself  with  a  newspaper,  or  some- 
times with  a  magazine.  The  frugality  and  tem- 
perance established  in  his  house,  were  as  admir- 


THE  U1VEK   OUDVVN. 


271 


able  as  the  industry.  Nothing  to  which  the 
name  of  luxury  couhi  be  given  was  there  known; 
in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  indeed,  when  tea  had 
been  brought  into  almost  general  use,  it  was  pro- 
vided for  visitors,  and  for  mi.  h  of  Ms  own  family 
as  returned  occasionally  to  his  roof,  and  had  been 
accustomed  to  this  refreshment  elsewhere  ;  but 
neither  he  nor  his  wife  ever  partook  of  it.  '1'he 
raiment  worn  by  his  family  was  comely  and  de- 
cent, but  as  simple  as  their  diet  ;  the  home-spun 
materials  were  made  up  into  apparel  by  their  own 
hands.  At  the  time  of  the  decease  of  this  thrifty 
pair,  their  cottage  contained  a  large  store  of  webs 
of  woollen  and  linen  cloth,  woven  from  thread  of 
their  own  spinning.  And  it  is  remarkable  that 
the  pew  in  the  chapel  in  which  the  family  used 
to  sit,  remained  a  few  years  ago  neatly  lined  with 
woollen  cloth  spun  by  the  pastor"s  own  hands.  It 
is  the  only  pew  in  the  chapel  so  distinguished  ; 
and  I  know  of  no  other  instance  of  his  conformity 
to  the  delicate  accommodations  of  modern  times. 
The  fuel  of  the  house,  like  that  of  their  neigh- 
bours, consisted  of  peat,  procured  from  the 
mosses  by  their  own  labour.  The  lights  by 
which,  in  the  winter  evenings,  their  work  was 
performed,  were  of  their  own  manufacture,  such 
as  still  continue  to  be  used  in  these  cottages  ; 
they  are  made  of  the  pith  of  rushes  dipped  in  any 
unctuous  substance  that  the  house  affords. 
White  candles,  as  tallow  candles  are  here  called, 
were  reserved  to  honour  the  Christmas  festivals, 
and  were  perhaps  produced  upon  no  other  occa- 
sion. Once  a  month,  during  the  proper  season, 
a  sheep  was  drawn  from  their  small  mountain 
flock,  and  killed  for  the  use  of  the  family,  and  a 
cow  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  was  salted 
and  dried,  for  winter  provision  :  the  hide  was 
tanned  to  furnish  them  with  shoes. — By  these 
various  resources,  this  venerable  clergyman 
reared  a  numerous  family,  not  only  preserving 
them,  as  he  affectingly  says,  "  from  wanting  the 
necessaries  of  life,  "  but  afforded  them  an  un- 
stinted education,  and  the  means  of  raising  them- 
selves in  society. 

It  might  have  been  concluded  that  no  one 
could  thus,  as  it  were,  have  converted  his  body 
into  a  machine  of  industry  for  the  humblest  uses, 
and  kept  his  thoughts  so  frequently  bent  upon 
secular  concerns,  without  grievous  injury  to  the 
more  precious  parts  of  his  nature.  How  could 
the  powers  of  intellect  thrive,  or  its  graces  be 
displayed,  in  the  midst  of  circumstances  ap- 
parently so  unfavourable,  and  where,  to  the  di- 
rect cultivation  of  the  mind,  so  small  a  portion  of 
time  was  allotted  ?  But,  in  this  extraordinary 
man,  things  in  their  nature  adverse  were  recon- 
ciled :  his  conversation  was  remarkable,  not  only 
for  being  chaste  and  pure,  but  for  the  degree  in 
which  it  was  fervent  and  elocpaent  ;  his  written 
style  was  correct,  simple,  and  animated.  Nor 
did  his  affections  suffer  more  than  his  intellect  ; 
he  was  tenderly  alive  to  all  the  duties  of  his 
pastoral  office:  the  poor  and  needy  "  he  never 
sent  empty  away,"— the  stranger  was  fed  and  re- 
freshed in  passing  that  unfrequented  vale, — the 
sick  were  visited  ;  and  the  feelings  of  humanity 
found  further  exercise  among  the  distresses  and 
embarrassments  in  the  worldly  estate  of  his  neigh- 


bours, with  which  his  talents  for  business  made 
him  acquainted  ;  and  the  disinterestedness,  im- 
partiality, and  uprightness  which  he  maintained 
in  the  management  of  all  affairs  confided  to  him, 
were  virtues  seldom  separated  in  his  own  con- 
science from  religious  obligations.  Nor  could 
such  conduct  fail  to  remind  those  who  witnessed 
it  of  a  spirit  nobler  than  law  or  custom  :  they 
felt  convictions  which,  but  for  such  intercourse, 
could  not  have  been  afforded,  that,  as  in  the 
practice  of  their  pastor,  there  was  no  guile,  so  in 
his  faith  there  was  nothing  hollow  ;  and  we  are 
warranted  in  believing,  that  upon  these  occa- 
sions, selfishness,  obstinacy,  and  discord  would 
often  give  way  before  the  breathings  of  his  good- 
will and  saintly  integrity.  It  may  be  presumed 
also,  while  his  humble  congregation  were  listen- 
ing to  the  moral  precepts  which  he  delivered 
from  the  pulpit,  and  to  the  Christian  exhortations 
that  they  should  love  their  neighbour  as  them- 
selves, and  do  as  they  would  be  done  unto,  thai 
peculiar  efficacy  was  given  to  the  preacher's 
labours  by  recollections  in  the  minds  of  his  con- 
gregation, that  they  were  called  upon  to  do  no 
more  than  his  own  actions  were  daily  setting 
before  their  eyes. 

The  afternoon  service  in  the  chapei  was  less 
numerously  attended  than  that  of  the  morning, 
but  by  a  more  serious  auditory  ;  the  lesson  from 
the  New  Testament,  on  those  occasions,  was 
accompanied  by  Burkitt's  Commentaries.  These 
lessons  he  read  with  impassioned  emphasis,  fre- 
quently drawing  tears  from  his  hearers,  pud  leav- 
ing a  lasting  impression  upon  their  minds.  His 
devotional  feelings  and  the  powers  of  his  own 
mind  were  further  exercised,  along  with  those  of 
his  family,  in  perusing  the  Scriptures  ;  not  only 
on  the  Sunday  evenings,  but  on  every  other 
evening,  while  the  rest  of  the  household  were  at 
work,  some  one  of  the  children,  and  in  her  turn 
the  servant,  for  the  sake  of  practice  in  reading, 
or  for  instruction,  read  the  Bible  aloud  ;  and  in 
this  manner  the  whole  was  repeatedly  gone 
through.  That  no  common  importance  was  at- 
tached to  the  observance  of  religious  ordinances 
by  his  family,  appears  from  the  following  memo- 
randum by  one  of  his  descendants,  which  I  am 
tempted  to  insert  at  length,  as  it  is  characteristic, 
and  somewhat  curious: — "There  is  a  smsll 
chapel  in  the  county  palatine  of  Lancaster, 
where  a  certain  clergyman  has  regularly  offi- 
ciated above  sixty  years,  and  a  few  months  ago 
administered  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper 
in  the  same,  to  a  decent  number  of  devout  com- 
municants. After  the  clergyman  had  received 
himself,  the  first  company  out  of  the  assembly 
who  approached  the  altar,  and  kneeled  down  to 
be  partakers  of  the  sacred  elements,  consisted  of 
the  parson's  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married 
upwards  of  sixty  years  :  one  son  and  his  wife 
four  daughters,  each  with  her  husband  ;  whose 
ages,  all  added  together,  amount  to  above  714 
years.  The  several  and  respective  distances 
from  the  place  of  each  of  their  abodes  to  the 
chapel  where  they  all  communicated,  will  mea 
sure  more  than  1000  English  miles.  Though 
the  narration  will  appear  surprising,  it  is  without 
doubt  a  fact  that  the  same  persons,  exactly  four 


272 


TEE  RIVER  DUDDON. 


years  before,  met  at  the  same  place,  and  all 
joined  in  performance  of  the  same  venerable 
duty." 

He  was  indeed  most  zealously  attached  to  the 
doctrine  and  frame  of  the  Established  Church. 
We  have  seen  him  congratulating  himself  that 
he  had  no  dissenters  in  his  cure  of  any  denomi- 
nation. Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the 
state  of  opinion  when  his  first  religious  impres- 
sions were  received,  before  the  reader  will 
acquit  him  of  bigotry,  when  I  mention,  that 
at  the  time  of  the  augmentation  of  the  cure,  he 
refused  to  invest  part  of  the  money  in  the 
purchase  of  an  estate  offered  to  him  upon  ad- 
vantageous terms,  because  the  proprietor  was  a 
Quaker  ; — whether  from  scrupulous  apprehen- 
sion that  a  blessing  would  not  attend  a  contract 
framed  for  the  benefit  of  the  Church  between 
persons  not  in  religious  sympathy  with  each 
other  ;  or,  as  a  seeker  of  peace, he  was  afraid  of  the 
uncomplying  disposition  which  at  one  time  was 
too  frequently  conspicuous  in  that  sect.  Of 
this  an  instance  had  fallen  under  his  own  notice  ; 
for,  while  he  taught  school  at  Loweswater,  cer- 
tain persons  of  that  denomination  had  refused 
to  pay  annual  interest  due  under  the  title  of 
Church-stock ;  *  a  great  hardship  upon  the 
incumbent,  for  the  curacy  of  Loweswater  was 
then  scarcely  less  poor  than  that  of  Seathwaite. 
To  what  degree  this  prejudice  of  his  was  blame- 
able  need  not  be  determined  ; — certain  it  is,  that 
he  was  not  only  desirous,  as  he  himself  says,  to 
live  in  peace,  but  in  love  with  all  men.  He  was 
placable,  and  charitable  in  his  judgments  ;  and, 
however  correct  in  conduct  and  rigorous  to  him- 
self, he  was  ever  ready  to  forgive  the  trespasses 
of  others,  and  to  soften  the  censure  that  was 
cast  upon  their  frailties. — It  would  be  unpardon- 
able to  omit  that,  in  the  maintenance  of  his 
virtues,  he  received  due  support  from  the  part- 
ner of  his  long  life  She  was  equally  strict  in 
attending  to  her  share  of  their  joint  cares,  nor 
less  diligent  in  her  appropriate  occupations.  A 
person  who  had  been  some  time  their  servant  in 
the  latter  part  of  their  lives,  concluded  the 
panegyric  of  her  mistress  by  saying  to  me,  "  She 
was  no  less  excellent  than  her  husband  ;  she  was 
good  to  the  poor,  she  was  good  to  everything  I" 
He  survived  for  a  short  time  this  virtuous  com- 
panion. When  she  died,  he  ordered  that  her 
body  should  be  borne  to  the  grave  by  three  of 
her  daughters  and  one  granddaughter  ;  and, 
when  the  corpse  was  lifted  from  the  threshold, 
he  insisted  upon  lending  his  aid,  and  feeling 
about,  for  he  was  then  almost  blind,  took  hold 
of  a  napkin  fixed  to  the  coffin  ;  and,  as  a  bearer 
of  the  body,  entered  the  chapel,  a  few  steps 
from  the  lowly  parsonage. 

What  a  contrast  does  the  life  of  this  obscurely- 
seated,  and,  in  point  of  worldly  wealth,  poorly- 
repaid  churchman,  present  to  that  of  a  Cardinal 
Wolsej'  ! 

*  Mr.  Walker's  charity  being  of  that  kind 
which  "  seeketh  not  her  own,"  he  would  rather 
forego  his  rights  than  distrain  for  dues  which 
the  parties  liable  refused  to  pay  as  a  point  of 
conscience. 


i  "Oh,  'tis  a  burthen,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burthen, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  who  hopes  for  heaven  ! " 

|  We  have  been  dwelling  upon  images  of  peace 
,  in  the  moral  world,  that  have  brought  us  again 
to  the  quiet  inclosure  of  consecrated  ground,  in 
which  this  venerable  pair  he  interred.  The 
sounding  brook,  that  rolls  close  by  the  church- 
!  yard,  without  disturbing  feeling  or  meditation, 
is  now  unfortunately  laid  bare  ;  but  not  long 
ago  it  participated,  with  the  chapel,  the  shade 
of  some  stately  ash-trees,  which  will  not  spring 
again.  While  the  spectator  from  this  spot  is 
looking  round  upon  the  girdle  of  stony  moun- 
tains that  encompasses  the  vale, — masses  of 
rock,  out  of  which  monuments  for  all  men  thai 
ever  existed  might  have  been  hewn,  it  would 
surprise  him  to  be  told,  as  with  truth  he  might 
be,  that  the  plain  blue  slab  dedicated  to  the 
memory  of  this  aged  pair,  is  a  production  of  a 
quarry  in  North  Wales.  It  was  sent  as  a  mark 
of  respect  by  one  of  their  descendants  from  the 
vale  of  Festiniog,  a  region  almost  as  beautiful  as 
that  in  which  it  now  lies  ! 

Upon  the  Seathwaite  Brook,  at  a  small  dis- 
tance from  the  parsonage,  has  been  erected  a 
mill  for  spinning  yarn  ;  it  is  a  mean  and  dis- 
agreeable object,  though  not  unimportant  to  the 
spectator,  as  calling  to  mind  the  momentous 
changes  wrought  by  such  inventions  in  the 
frame  of  society — changes  which  have  proved 
especially  unfavourable  to  these  mountain  soli- 
tudes. So  much  had  been  effected  by  those 
new  powers,  before  the  subject  of  the  preceding 
biographical  sketch  closed  his  life,  that  then- 
operation  could  not  escape  his  notice,  and 
doubtless  excited  touching  reflections  upon  the 
comparatively  insignificant  results  of  his  own 
manual  industry.  But  Robert  Walker  was  not 
a  man  of  times  and  circumstances  ;  had  he  lived 
at  a  later  period,  the  principle  of  duty  would 
have  produced  application  as  unremitting  :  the 
same  energy  of  character  would  have  been  dis- 
played, though  in  many  instances  with  widely 
different  effects. 

Having  mentioned  in  this  narrative  the  vale 
of  Loweswater  as  a  place  where  Mr.  Walker 
taught  school,  I  will  add  a  few  memoranda 
from  its  parish-register,  respecting  a  person 
apparently  of  desires  as  moderate,  with  whom 
he  must  have  been  intimate  during  his  residence 
there. 

"  Let  him  that  would,  ascend  the  tottering  seat 
Of  courtly  grandeur,  and  become  as  great 
As  are  his  mounting  wishes  ;  but  for  me 
Let  sweet  repose  and  rest  my  portion  be. 

Henry  Forest,  Curate. 

"  Honour,  the  idol  which  the  most  adore, 
Receives  no  homage  from  my  knee  ; 
Content  in  privacy  I  value  more 
Than  all  uneasy  dignity." 

"  Henry  Forest  came  to  Loweswater,  170& 
being  25  years  of  age. " 

"This  curacy  was  twice  augmented  by  Queen 
Anne's  bounty.  The  first  payment,  with  great 
difficulty,   was  paid    to   Mr.   John   Curwen,  of 


TJTE  RIVER  DVDDON. 


273 


London,  on  the  oth  May,  1724,  deposited  by  me, 
Henry  Forest,  Curate  of  Lowcswatcr.  Ye  said 
9th  of  May,  ye  said  Mr.  Curwen  went  to  the 
office  and  saw  my  name  registered  there,  etc. 
This,  by  the  Providence  of  God,  came  by  lot  to 
this  poor  place. 

"Hkc  testor  H.  Forest." 

In  another  place  he  records,  that  the  syca- 
more trees  were  planted  in  the  church-yard  in 
1710. 

He  died  in  1741,  having  been  curate  thirty- 
four  years.  It  is  not  improbable  that  H. 
Forest  was  the  gentleman  who  assisted  Robert 
Walker  in  his  classical  studies  at  Loweswater. 


To  this  parish-register  is  prefixed  a  motto,  of 
which  the  following  verses  are  a  part  :— 

"  Invigilate  viri,  tacito  nam  tempora  gressu 
Diffueiunt,  nulloque  sono  convertitur  annus  ; 
Utendum  est  aetate,  cito  pede  pranerit  setas." 

Note  3.  Sonnet  xxxiv. 

"  We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  -we  knotuS' 

"  And  feel  that  I  am  happier  than  I  know." 
—Milton. 

The  allusion  to  the  Greek  poet  will  be  obvious 
to  the  classical  reader. 


274 


looms  0f  Senttntmt  mxb  Ueftexfwit. 


EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY. 

"  Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away? 

■ '  Where  are  your  books  ?— that  light  be- 
queathed 
To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind  ! 
Up  !  up  !  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You  look  round  on  your  mother  earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you  ; 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you  ! " 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  I  made  reply — 

"The  eye— it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still  ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against,  or  with  our  will. 

' '  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress  ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 

1 '  Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

Conversing  as  I  may, 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone, 

And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE  TABLES  TURNED. 

AN    EVENING   SCENE,    ON   THE    SAME 
SUBJECT. 

Up  !     up  !     my    friend,     and    quit    youi 

books; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 
A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  allthelonggreen  fields  has  spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books  !  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings  ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher  : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  nature  brings  , 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  science  and  of  art ; 
Close  up  these  barren  leaves  ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


275 


WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY. 

ON  ONE  OF  THE  COLDEST  DAYS  OF  THE 
CENTURY. 

The  reader  must  be  apprised,  that  the  stoves  in 
North  Germany  generally  have  the  impression 
of  a  galloping  horse  upon  them,  this  being 
part  of  the  Brunswick  Arms. 

A  plague  on  your  languages,   German 

and  Norse  ! 
Let  me  have  the  song  of  the  kettle  ; 
And  the  tongs  and  the  poker,  instead  of 

that  horse 
That  gallops  away  with  such  fury  and  force 
On  lus  dreary  dull  plate  of  black  metal. 

See  that  fly, — a  disconsolate  creature  !  per- 
A  child  of  the  field  or  the  grove  ;        [haps 
And,  sorrow  for  him  !  the  dull  treacherous 
heat  [retreat, 

Has  seduced  the  poor  fool  from  his  winter 
And  he  creeps  to  the  edge  of  my  stove. 

Alas  !  how  he  fumbles  about  the  domains 
Which  this  comfortless  oven  environ  ! 
He  cannot  find  out  in  what  track  he  must 
crawl,  [wall, 

Now  back  to  the  tiles,  and  now  back  to  the 
And  now  on  the  brink  of  the  iron. 

Stock-still  there  he  stands  like  a  traveller 

bemazed  ; 
The  best  of  his  skill  he  has  tried  ;       [forth 
His  feelers,  methinks,  I  can  see  him  put 
To  the  east  and  the  west,  to  the  south  and 

the  north  ; 
'■Jut  he  finds  neither  guide-post  nor  guide. 

How  his  spindles  sink  under  him,  foot,  leg, 

and  thigh  ; 
His  eyesight  and  hearing  are  lost  ; 
Between  life  and  death  his  blood  freezes 

and  thaws  ; 
And  his  two  pretty  pinions  of  blue  dusky 
Are  glued  to  his  sides  by  the  frost,    [gauze 

No  brother,  no  mate  has  he  near  him — 
while  I  [love  ; 

Can  draw  warmth  from  the  cheek  of  my 
As  blest  and  as  glad  in  this  desolate  gloom, 
As  if  green  summer  grass  were  the  floor  of 

my  room, 
And  woodbines  were  hanging  above. 

Vet,  God  is  my  witness,  thou  small  helpless 
Thy  life  I  would  gladly  sustain         [thing ! 


Till  summer  comes  up  from  the  south,  and 

with  crowds 
Of  thy  brethren  a  march    thou   shouldst 

sound  through  the  clouds, 
And  back  to  the  forests  again  ! 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY 
WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  childish 

thought  :  [light 

Whose    high   endeavours   are   an   inward 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always 

bright  : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent 

to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care ; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  pain, 
And  fear,  and  bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls   them   and  subdues,  transmutes, 

bereaves,  [receives ; 

Of   their  bad  influence,    and    their  good 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to 

abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate ; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more 

pure, 
As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress  ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 
'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted 

still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows ; 
Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means  ;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire  ; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to   the 

same 


276 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in 

wait  [state ; 

For   wealth,    or   honours,    or   for  worldly 
Whom  thev  must  follow  ;  on  whose  head 

must  fall,  [all  : 

Like  showers  of  manna,   if  they  come  at 
Whose   powers   shed   round    him    in    the 

common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has 

joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 
Is  happy  as  a  lover  ;  and  attired 
With  sudden   brightness,   like  a  man   in- 
spired ; 
And,  through   the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps 

the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  fore- 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed,        [saw ; 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : 
He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 
Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to 

love  : — 
'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be 

won  : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand 

fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast  : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the 

earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name, 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause  ; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering, 

draws  [plause  : 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  ap- 
This  is  the  happy  warrior  ;  this  is  he 
Whom  everv  man  in  arms  should  with  to 

be. 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a  statesman,  in  the  van 
Of  public  business  trained  and  bred  '; 
First  learn  to  love  one  living  man  ; 
Then  mayst  thou  think  upon  the  dead 

A  lawyer  art  thou  ? — draw  not  nigh  ; 
Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 
The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 

Art  thou  a  man  of  purple  cheer  ? 
A  rosy  man,  right  plump  to  see  ? 
Approach  ;  yet,  doctor,  not  too  near  ' 
This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  gallant  pride, 
A  soldier,  and  no  man  of  chaff? 
Welcome  ! — but  lay  thy  sword  aside, 
And  lean  upon  a  peasant's  staff. 

Physician  art  thou  ?  One,  all  eyes, 
Philosopher  !  a  fingering  slave, 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanise 
Upon  his  mother's  grave  ? 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 
O  turn  aside, — and  take,  I  pray, 
That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
That  abject  thing,  thy  soul,  away  ! 

A  moralist  perchance  appears  ; 
Led,  Heaven  knows  how  !  to  this  poor  sod: 
And  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears  ; 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God: 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  nor  small  ; 
A  reasoning  self-sufficient  thing, 
An  intellectual  all  in  all ! 

Shut  close  the  door  ;  press  down  the  latch; 
Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust  ; 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 

But  who  is  he,  with  modest  looks, 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown? 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove  ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 


POEM*  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley  he  has  viewed  ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
»Iave  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

Hut  he  is  weak,  both  man  and  boy, 
I  lath  been  an  idler  in  the  land  ; 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand. 

Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength  ; 
( tome,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave  ! 
I  [ere  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length  : 
Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. 


If  he  be  one  that  feels,  with  skill  to  part 
False  praise  from  true,  or  greater  from  the 

less, 
Thee  will  he  welcome  to  his  hand  and  heart, 
Thou  monument  of  peaceful  happiness  ! 

With  thee  he  will  not  dread  a  toilsome  da\ , 
His  powerful  servant,  his  inspiring  mate  ! 
And,  when  thou  art  past  service,  worn  away 
Thee  a  surviving  soul  shall  consecrate. 

His  thrift  thy  uselessness  will  never  scorn  ; 
An  heirloom  in  his  cottage  wilt  thou  be: — 
Higli  will  he  hang  thee  up,  and  will  adorn 
His  rustic  chimney  with  the  last  of  thee  ! 


TO  THE  SPADE  OF  A  FRIEND, 

(AN   AGRICULTURIST.) 

.  OMPOSED   WHILE   WE  WERE  LABOURING 
TOGETHER   IN   HIS   PLEASURE-GROUND. 

Spade  !  with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled 
his  lands,  [side, 

And  shaped  these  pleasant  walks  by  Emont's 

Thou  art  a  tool  of  honour  in  my  hands  ; 

I  press  thee,  through  the  yielding  soil,  with 
pride. 

Rare  master  has  it  been  thy  lot  to  know  ; 
Long  hast  thou  served  a  man  to   reason 
true  ;  Llow' 

Whose  life  combines  the  best  of  high  and 
The  toiling  many  and  the  resting  few  ; 

Health,  meekness,  ardour,  quietness  secure, 
And  industry  of  body  and  of  mind  ; 
And  elegant  enjoyments,  that  are  pure 
As  nature  is  ;— too  pure  to  be  refined. 

Here  often  hast  thou  heard  the  poet  sing 
In  concord  with  his  rivei  nrcnmuringby; 
Or  in  some  silent  field,  while  timid  spring 
Is  yet  uncheered  by  other  minstrelsy. 

Who  shall  inherit  thee  when  death  has  laid 
Low  in  the  darksome  cell  thine  own  dear 

lord? 
That  man  will  have  a  trophy,  humble  spade! 
A  trophy  nobler  than  a  conqueror's  sword! 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

WRITTEN     AT     A    SMALL      DISTANCE 

FROM    MY   HOUSE,    AND   SENT   BY 

MY    LITTLE    BOY. 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before, 
The  redbreast  sing.;  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  >ur  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  fcc  bare  tree;  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  sister  !  ('tis  a  wish  of  mine) 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign  ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you  ;  and  pray 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress 
And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyous  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  calendar  : 
We  from  to-day,  my  friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth 
It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 

Than  fifty  years  of  reason  : 

Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 

I  he  spirit  of  the  season. 


273  VUEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 
Which  they  shall  long  obey  : 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We'll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls  : 
They  shall  be  turned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  sister  !  come,  I  pray, 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress ; 
And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WHO   HAD   BEEN    REPROACHED.  FOR 

TAKING  LONG   WALKS   IN   THE 

COUNTRY. 

Dear  child  of  nature,  let  them  rail ! 

There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbour  and  a  hold, 

Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt  see 

Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd-boy, 

And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy, 

That  at  no  season  fade, 

£ hou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling, 

Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 

Nor  leave  thee  when  gray-hairs  are  nigh, 

A  melancholy  slave  ; 

But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 

And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 


LINES 


/ 


WRITTEN    IN   EARLY   SPRING. 


I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 


Through  primrose  tufts  in  that  sweet  bower 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths  ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played  : 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  : — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made, 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air  ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

From  Heaven  if  this  belief  be  sent, 
If  such  be  nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 


SIMON  LEE,  THE  OLD  HUNTS- 
MAN, 

WITH   AN   INCIDENT    IN    WHICH   HE   WAS 
CONCERNED. 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  blooming  as  a  cherry. 

Worn  out  by  hunting  feats — bereft 

By  time  of  friends  and  kindred,  see  ! 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty. 

His  master's  dead, — and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead  ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee 

When  echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  tillage. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 
Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind; 
And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 
He  reeled  and  was  stone-blind. 


WEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION 


279 


And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 
At  which  his  heart  rejoices  ; 
For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 
He  dearly  loves  their  voices  ! 

But  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 
His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick  , 
His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
One  prop  he  has,  an  only  one, 
His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 
Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

This  scsap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 

Inclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 

"  But  what,"  saith  he,  "  avails  the  land 

Which  I  can  till  no  longer?" 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do  ; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

Alas  !  'tis  very  little — all 

Which  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store, 
As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 
My  gentle  reader,  I  perceive 
How  patiently  you've  waited, 
And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 
Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  reader  !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

O  gentle  reader  !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it : 

It  is  no  tale  ;  but,  should  you  think, 

Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand  ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavour, 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  worked  for  ever. 


"You're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 

Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said  ; 

And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 

Received  my  proffered  aid. 

I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 

The  tangled  root  I  severed, 

At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 

And  vainly  had  endeavoured. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning, 
Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 


INCIDENT 

CHARACTERISTIC   OF   A   FAVOURITE  DOG. 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  master 
Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare  ; 
Searches  pasture  after  pasture, 
Sheep  and  cattle  eyes  with  care  ; 
And  for  silence  or  for  talk, 
He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk  ; 
Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed, 
Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for 
speed. 

See  a  hare  before  him  started  ! 

Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase  ; 

Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 

All  the  four  are  in  the  race  : 

And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue. 

Hath  an  instinct  what  to  do  ; 

Her  hope  is  near  :  no  turn  she  makes  ; 

But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 

Deep  the  river  was,  and  crusted 
Thinly  by  a  one  night's  frost ; 
But  the  nimble  hare  hath  trusted 
To  the  ice,  and  safely  crost ; 
She  hath  crost,  and  without  heed 
All  are  following  at  full  speed. 
When,  lo  !  the  ice,  so  thinly  spread, 
Breaks — and  the  greyhound,  Dart,  is  over 
head  ! 

Better  fate  have  Prince  and  Swallow — 
See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport  ! 
Music  has  no  heart  to  follow. 
Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 
She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart, 
Hers  is  now  another  part : 

X 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


280 


A  loving  creature  she,  and  brave  ! 
And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  friend  to 
save. 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 
Very  hands  as  you  would  say  ! 
And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches, 
As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 
For  herself  she  hath  no  fears,— 
Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears,— 
Makes  efforts  and  complainings  ;  nor  gives 
o'er  fmore- 

Until  her  fellow  sank,  and  re-appeared  no 


A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind 
Not  onlv  to  us  men,  but  to  thy  kind  : 
Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 
The  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law :— ■ 
Hence,  if  we  wept,   it   was  not   done  in 

shame ;  [came, 

Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason 
And,  therefore,  shalt  thou  be  an  honoured 

name  ! 


TRIBUTE 
TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  SAME  DOG. 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 
Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth  ! 
It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise, 
Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  stone  we 

raise ;  [man, 

More  thou  deserv'st ;  but  this  man  gives  to 
Brother,  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 
Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 
Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the 

year :  Ltree 

This  oak  points  out  thy  grave  ;  the  silent 
Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  of  thee. 

I  grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end 
were  past ; 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived,   till  everything  that 

cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years  ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away  ; 
And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day  ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf ;  and  feeble  were  thy 

knees, 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath , 
And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death. 
It  came,  and  we  were  glad  ;  yet  tears  were 
shed  ;  [wert  dead  ; 

Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou 
Not  only  for  a  thousand  thoughts  that  were, 
Old  household   thoughts,    in  which  thou 
hadst  thy  share  ;  [thee, 

But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to 
Found  scarcely  any  where  in  like  degree  ! 
For  love,  that  comes  to  all— the  holy  sense, 
Best  gift  of  God — in  thee  was  most  intense  ; 
A.  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 


In  the  school  of is  a  tablet,  on  which  are 

inscribed,  in  gilt  letters,  the  names  of  the 
several  persons  who  have  been  schoolmasters 
there  since  the  foundation  of  the  school,  with 
the  time  at  which  they  entered  upon  and 
quitted  their  office.  Opposite  one  of  those 
names  the  author  wrote  the  following  lines  :— 

If  nature,  for  a  favourite  child 
In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay 
That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild 
Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray, 

Read  o'er  these  lines  ;  and  then  review 
This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 
In  such  diversity  of  hue 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 

When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame, 
Cipher  and  syllable  !  thine  eye 
Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew's  name, 
Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And,  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake, 
Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed  : 
For  Matthew  a  request  I  make 
Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made. 

Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 
Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool  : 
Far  from  the  chimney's  merry  roar, 
And  murmur  of  the  village  school. 

The  sighs  which  Matthewheaved  were  sighs 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness  ; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 
It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up — 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould  ! 
Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 
That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ? 


POEMS    OF    SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


281 


THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun  : 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  I" 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grr.ss, 
And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun  ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?" 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

' '  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colours,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky,  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And,  coming  to  the  church,  stopped  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Xine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang  ; — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more, 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

"And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 


"  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

"  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free  ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wav« 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine." 

Matthew  i9  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 
Methinks,  I  see  him  stand, 
As  at  that  moment, with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 


THE   FOUNTAIN. 

A   CONVERSATION. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"  Now  Matthew  !"  said  I,     iet  us  match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  Border  song,  or  catch, 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

"  Or  of  the  church  clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  !" 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed, 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-haired  man  of  glee  : 

"  Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers, 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  murmur  On  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 


282 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


"My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 
My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  eara 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"  The  blackbird  in  the  summer  trees, 
The  lark  upon  the  hill. 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

"  With  nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free  : 

"But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 
And  often  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  is  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 
I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains, 

"And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee  !" 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
"  Alas  1  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock, 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church  clock, 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


If    thou    indeed    derive    thy  light   from 

Heaven, 
Shine,  poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content ! 
The  star  that  from  the  zenith  darts  its  beams, 
Visible  though  it  be  to  half  the  earth, 
Though  half  a  sphere  be  conscious  of  its 

brightness, 
Is  yet  of  no  diviner  origin, 
No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that  burns, 
Like  an  untended  watch-fire,  on  the  ridge 
Of  some   dark  mountain  ;  or  than  those 

which  seem  [lamps, 

Humbly   to   hang,    like   twinkling  winter 
Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK    LEAF  OF 
MACPHERSON'S  "  OSSIAN." 

Oft  have  I  caught  from  fitful  breeze 

Fragments  of  far-off  melodies, 

With  ear  not  coveting  the  whole, 

A  part  so  charmed  the  pensive  soul : 

While  a  dark  storm  before  my  sight 

Was  yielding,  on  a  mountain  height 

Loose  vapours  have  I  watched,  that  won 

Prismatic  colours  from  the  sun  ; 

Nor  felt  a  wish  that  heaven  would  show 

The  image  of  its  perfect  bow. 

What  need,  then,  of  these  finished  strains? 

Away  with  counterfeit  remains  ! 

An  abbey  in  its  lone  recess, 

A  temple  of  the  wilderness, 

Wrecks  though   they  be,   announce  witl: 

feeling 
The  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 
Spirit  of  Ossian  !  if  imbound 
In  language  thou  mayst  yet  be  found, 
If  aught  (intrusted  to  the  pen, 
Or  floating  on  the  tongues  of  men, 
Albeit  shattered  and  impaired) 
Subsist  thy  dignity  to  guard, 
In  concert  with  memorial  claim 
Of  old  gray  stone,  and  high-born  name, 
That  cleaves  to  rock  or  pillared  cave, 
Where  moans  the  blast  or  beats  the  wave, 
Let  truth,  stern  arbitress  of  all 
Interpret  that  original, 
And  for  presumptuous  wrongs  atone  ; 
Authentic  words  be  given,  or  none  ! 

Time  is  not  blind  ; — yet  he,  who  spares 
Pyramid  pointing  to  the  stars, 
Hath  preyed  with  ruthless  appetite 
On  all  that  marked  the  primal  flight 
Of  the  poetic  ecstasy 
Into  the  land  of  mystery. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLEOTION. 


283 


No  tongue  is  able  to  rehearse 

One  measure,  Orpheus  !  of  thy  verse  ; 

Musaeus,  stationed  with  his  lyre 

Supreme  among  the  Elysian  quire, 

Is,  for  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 

Mute  as  a.  lark  ere  morning's  birth. 

Why  grieve  for  these,  though  passed  away 

The  music,  and  extinct  the  lay? 

When  thousands,  by  severer  doom, 

Full  early  to  the  silent  tomb 

Have  sunk,  at  nature's  call  ;  or  strayed 

From  hope  and  promise,  self-betrayed  ; 

The  garland  withering  on  their  brows  ; 

Stand  with  remorse  for  broken  vows  ; 

Frantic — else  how  might  they  rejoice  ? 

And  friendless,  by  their  own  sad  choice. 

Hail,  bards  of  mightier  grasp  !  on  you 
I  chiefly  call,  the  chosen  few, 
Who  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide, 
Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside  ; 
Whose  lofty  genius  could  survive 
Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive  ; 
In  whom  the  fiery  muse  revered 
The  symbol  of  a  snow-white  beard. 
Bedewed  with  meditative  tears 
Dropped  from  the  lenient  cloud  of  years. 

Brothers  in  soul  !  though  distant  times 
Produced  you,  nursed  in  various  climes, 
Ye,  when  the  orb  of  life  had  waned, 
A  plenitude  of  love  retained  ; 
Hence,  while  in  you  each  sr.d  regret 
By  corresponding  hope  was  met, 
Ye  lingered  among  human  kind, 
Sweet  voices  for  the  passing  wind  ; 
Departing  sunbeams,  loth  to  stop, 
Though  smiling  on  the  last  hill  top  ! 

Such  to  the  tender-hearted  maid 
Even  ere  her  joys  begin  to  fade  ; 
Such,  haply,  to  the  rugged  chief 
By  fortune  crushed,  or  tamed  by  grief; 
Appears,  on  Morven's  lonely  shore, 
Dim-gleaming  through  imperfect  lore, 
The  Son  of  Fingal ;  such  was  blind 
Maeonides  of  ampler  mind  ; 
Such  Milton,  to  the  fountain  head 
Of  glory  by  Urania  led  ! 


VERNAL  ODE. 


"  Rerura  natura  tota  est  nusquammagis  quam 
in  minimis. "—Plin.  Nat.  Hist. 

Beneath  the  concave  of  an  April  sky, 
When  all  the  fields  with  freshest  green  were 
dight, 


Appeared,    in    pres  nee  of  that  spiritual 

eye 
That  aids  or  supersedes  our  grosser  sight, 
The  form  and  rich  habiliments  of  one 
Whose  countenance  bore  resemblance  to 

the  sun, 
When  it  reveals,  in  evening  majesty, 
Features   half  lost   amid  their    own  pure 

light. 
Poised,  like  a  weary  cloud,  in  middle  air 
He  hung, — then  floated  with  angelic  ease 
(Softening  that  bright  effulgence  by  degrees) 
Till  he  had  reached  a  summit  sharp  and 

bare,  [the  noontide  breeze. 

Where   oft   the    venturous    heifer    drinkv 
Upon  the  apex  of  that  lofty  cone 
Alighted,  there  the  stranger  stood  alone  ; 
Fair  as  a  gorgeous  fabric  of  the  East 
Suddenly  raised  by  some  enchanter's  power, 
Where  nothing  was  ;  and  firm  as  some  old 

tower 
Of  Britain's  realm,  whose  leafy  crest 
Waves   high,   embellished  by  a  gleaming 

shower  1 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  purple  wings 
Rested  a  golden  harp  ; — he   touched  the 

strings  ; 
And,  after  prelude  of  unearthly  sound 
Poured  through  the  echoing  hills  around, 
He  sang — 

"  No  wintry  desolations, 
Scorching  blight,  or  noxious  dew, 
Affect  my  native  habitations  ; 
Buried  in  glory,  far  beyond  the  scope 
Of  man's  inquiring  gaze,  but  imaged  to  his 
(Alas,  how  faintly  !)  in  the  hue  [hope 

Profound  of  night's  ethereal  blue  ; 
And  in  the  aspect  of  each  radiant  orb  ;— - 
Some  fixed,  some  wandering  with  no  timid 

curb  ; 
But  wandering  star  and  fixed,  to  mortal 
Blended  in  absolute  serenity,  [eye, 

And  free  from  semblance  of  decline  ; 
Fresh  as  if  evening  brought   their  natal 
hour ;  [power, 

Her  darkness  splendour  gave  her  silence 
I'o  testify  of  love  and  grace  divine. 

"  And  though  to  every  draught  of  vital 
breath  [or  ocean. 

Renewed  throughout  the  bounds  of  earth 
The  melancholy  gates  of  death 
Respond  with  sympathetic  motion  ; 
Though  all  that  feeds  on  nether  air, 
Howe'er  magnificent  or  fair, 
Grows  but  to  perish,  and  intrust 
Its  ruins  to  their  kindred  dust ; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


hath 


Yet,  by  the  Almighty's  ever-during  care, 
Her  procreant  vigils  nature  keeps 
Amid  the  unfathomable  deeps  ; 
And  saves  the  peopled  fields  of  earth 
From  dread  of  emptiness  or  dearth,     [sky 
Thus,  in  their  stations,  lifting  toward  the 
The  foliaged  head  in  cloud-like  majesty, 
The  shadow-casting  race  of  trees  survive  : 
Thus,  in  the  train  of  spring,  arrive 
Sweet    flowers  ;— what    living    eye 

viewed 
Their  myriads  ? — endlessly  renewed, 
"Wherever  strikes  the  sun's  glad  ray  ; 
Where'er  the  subtle  waters  stray  ; 
Wherever  sportive  zephyrs  bend 
Their  course  or  genial  showers  descend  ! 
Mortals,  rejoice  !  the  very  angels  quit 
Their  mansions  unsusceptible  of  change, 
Amid  your  pleasant  bowers  to  sit, 
And   through   your  sweet  vicissitudes   to 

range  !" 
Oh,  nursed  at  happy  distance  from  the  cares 
Of  a    too-anxious    world,    mild   pastoral 

muse  ! 
That,  to  the  sparkling  crown  Urania  wears, 
And  to  her  sister  Clio's  laurel  wreath, 
Prefer'st   a   garland   culled    from    purple 
heath,  [dews  ; 

Or  blooming  thicket   moist  with  morning 
Was  such  bright  spectacle  vouchsafed  to 

me? 
And  was  it  granted  to  the  simple  ear 
Of  thy  contented  votary 
Such  melody  to  hear  ! 
Him  rather  suits  it,  side  by  side  with  thee, 
Wrapped  in  a  fit  of  pleasing  indolence, 
While  thy  tired  lute  hangs  on  the  hawthorn 

tree, 
To  lie  and  listen,  till  o'er-drowsed  sense 
Sinks,  hardly  conscious  of  the  influence, 
To  the  soft  murmur  of  the  vagrant  bee. 
A  slender  sound  !  yet  hoary  time 
Doth  to  the  soul  exalt  it  with  the  chime 
Of  all  his  years  ;— a  company 
Of  ages  coming,  ages  gone  ; 
(Nations  from  before  them  sweeping, 
Regions  in  destruction  steeping,) 
But  »very  awful  note  in  unison 
With  that  faint  utterance,  which  tells 
Of  treasure  sucked  from  buds  and  bells, 
For  the  pure  keeping  of  those  waxen  cells  ; 
Where  she,  a  statist  prudent  to  confer 
Upon  the  public  weal ;  a  warrior  bold,— 
Radiant  all  over  with  unburnished  gold, 
And  armed  with  living  spear  for  mortal 
A  cunning  forager  [fight  ; 

That  spreads  no  waste  ;— a  social  builder  ; 
In  whom  all  busy  offices  unite  [one 


With  all  fine  functions  that  afford  delight, 
Safe  through  the   winter  storm   in   quiet 
dwells ! 

And  is  she  brought  within  the  power 

Of  vision  ? — o'er  this  tempting  flower 

Hovering  until  the  petals  stay 

Her  flight,  and  take  its  voice  away  !— 

Observe  each  wing — a  tiny  van  ! — 

The  structure  of  her  laden  thigh, 

How  fragile  I— yet  of  ancestry 

Mysteriously  remote  and  high, 

High  as  the  imperial  front  of  man, 

The  roseate  bloom  on  woman's  cheek  ; 

The  soaring  eagle's  curved  beak  ; 

The  white  plumes  of  the  floating  swan  ; 

Old  as  the  tiger's  paw,  the  lion's  mane 

Ere  shaken  by  that  mood  of  stern  disdain 

At  which  the  desert  trembles.— Humming 

bee !  [unknown  ; 

Thy  sting    was  needless  then,  perchance 
The  seeds  of  malice  were  not  sown  ; 
All  creatures  met  in  peace,  from  fierceness 

free, 
And  no  pride  blended  with  their  dignity. 
Tears  had  not  broken  from  their  source  ; 
Nor  anguish  strayed  from  her  Tartarian 

den  ; 
The  golden  years  maintained  a  course 
Not    undiversified,    though    smooth    and 

even  ;  [shadow,  then 

We  were  not  mocked  with  glimpse  and 
Bright  seraphs  mixed  familiarly  with  men  ; 
And  earth  and  stars  composed  a  universal 

heaven ! 


ODE  TO  LYCORIS. 

May,  1817. 

An  age  hath  been  when  earth  was  proud 

Of  lustre  too  intense 

To  be  sustained  ;  and  mortals  bowed 

The  front  in  self-defence. 

Who  then,  if  Dian's  crescent  gleamed, 

Or  Cupid's  sparkling  arrow  streamed 

While  on  the  wing  the  urchin  played, 

Could  fearlessly  approach  the  shade  ? 

Enough  for  one  soft  vernal  day, 

If  I,  a  bard  of  ebbing  time, 

And  nurtured  in  a  fickle  clime, 

May  haunt  this  horned  bay  ; 

Whose  amorous  water  multiplies 

The  flitting  halcyon's  vivid  dyes  ; 

And  smooths  her  liquid  breast— to  show 

These  swan-like  specks  of  mountain  snow, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  ANT>  REFLECTION. 


285 


White  as  the  pair  that  slid  along  the  plains 
Of  heaven,  when  Venus  held  the  reins  ! 

In  youth  we  love  thai  darksome  lawn 

Rrushed  by  the  owlet's  wing  ; 

Then,  twilight  is  preferred  to  dawn, 

And  autumn  to  the  spring. 

Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 

In  luxury  of  disrespect 

To  our  own  prodigal  excess 

Of  too  familiar  happiness. 

Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit 

Thee,  thee  my  life's  celestial  sign  !) 

When  nature  marks  the  year's  decline, 

Be  ours  to  welcome  it ; 

Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs 

Before  the  path  of  milder  suns, 

Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays 

Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze  ; 

Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the 

Of  the  resplendent  miracle.  [knell 

But  something  whispers  to  my  heart 

That,  as  we  downward  tend, 

Lycoris  !  life  requires  an  art 

To  which  our  souls  must  bend  ; 

A  skill — to  balance  and  supply  ; 

And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry, 

As  soon  it  must,  a  sense  to  sip, 

Or  drink,  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Frank  greeting,  then,  to  that  blithe  guest 

D.ffusing  smiles  o'er  land  and  sea 

To  aid  the  vernal  Deity 

Whose  home  is  in  the  breast ! 

May  pensive  autumn  ne'er  present 

A  claim  to  her  disparagement  ! 

While  blossoms  and  the  budding  spray 

Inspire  us  in  our  own  decay  ; 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life's  dark  goal, 

Be  hopeful  spring  the  favourite  of  the  soul ! 


TO  THE  SAME. 

ENOUGH    of    climbing  toil !  —  Ambition 

treads  [and  rough, 

Here,  as  'mid  busier  scenes,  ground  steep 
Or  slippery  even  to  peril !  and  each  step, 
As  we  for  most  uncertain  recompense 
Mount   toward  the  empire   of   the  fickle 

clouds, 
Each    weary    step,    dwarfing  the    world 

below, 
Induces,  for  its  old  familiar  sights, 
Unacceptable  feelings  of  contempt, 
With    wonder    mixed  —  that  man  could 

e'er  be  tied, 


In  anxious  bondage  to  such  nice  array 
And  formal  fellowship  of  petty  things  I 
Oh !   'tis   the    heart    that   magnifies   this 

life, 
Making  a  truth  and  beauty  of  her  own  : 
And    moss-grown    alleys,    circumscribing 

shades, 
And  gurgling  rills,  assist  her  in  the  work 
More    efficaciously     than     realms     out- 
spread, 
As  in    a   map,   before   the    adventurer's 

gaze — 
Ocean  and  earth  contending  for  regard. 

The  umbrageous  woods  are  left — how  far 

beneath  ! 
But  lo  !  where  darkness  seems  to  guard 

the  mouth 
Of  yon    wild   cave,  whose  jagged  brows 

are  fringed 
With  flaccid  threads  of  ivy,  in  the  still 
And  sultry  air,  depending  motionless. 
Yet  cool  the  space  within,  and   not  un- 

cheered 
(As  whoso  enters  shall  ere  long  perceive) 
By  stealthy  influx  of  the  timid  day 
Mingling    with    night,    such    twilight  to 

compose 
As  Numa  loved ;   when,  in  the  Egerian 

grot, 
From  the  sage  nymph    appearing  at  his 

wish, 
He  gained  whate'er  a  regal  mind  might 

ask, 
Or  need,  of  council  breathed  through  lips 

divine. 

Long  as  the  heat  shall  rage,  let  that  dim 

cave 
Protect  us,  there  deciphering  as  we  may 
Diluvian  records  ;  or  the  sighs  of  earth 
Interpreting;  or  counting  for  old  time 
His  minutes,  by  reiterated  drops, 
Audible  tears,  from  some  invisible  source 
That  deepens  upon  fancy — more  and  more 
Drawn  toward  the   centre  whence  those 

sighs  creep  forth 
To  awe  the  lightness  of  humanity. 
Or,  shutting  up  thyself  within  thyself, 
There  let  me  see  thee  sink  into  a  mood 
Of  gentler  thought,  protracted  till  thine 

eye 
Be  calm  as  water  when  the  winds  are  gone, 
And  no  one  can  tell  whither.      Dearest 

friend  ! 
We  two  have  known  such  happy  hours 

together, 


286 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


That,  were  power  granted  to  replace  them 
(fetched 

From  out  the  pensive  shadows  where  they 
lie) 

In  the  first  warmth  of  their  original  sun- 
shine, 

Loth  should  I  be  to  use  it  :  passing  sweet 

Are  the  domains  of  tender  memory  ! 


FIDELITY". 

A  BARKING  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox  ; 
He  halts  and  searches  with  hfs  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks  : 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed  ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy  ; 

With  something,  as  the  shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry  : 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear  ; 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow  ; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn"  below  ! 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land  ; 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer  ; 
The  srags  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 
In  symphony  austere; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes — the  cloud — 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud  ; 
And  sunueams  ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past  ; 
But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a  while 
The  shepherd  stood  :  then  makes  his  way 
Towards  the  dog,  o'er  rocks  and  stones, 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 


*  A  tarn  is  a  small  mere  or  lake,  mostly  high 
up  In  the  mountains. 


Not  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground  ; 
The  appalled  discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear  ! 

At  length  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear: 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 
This  lamentable  tale  I  tell  ! 
A  lasting  monument  of  words 
This  wonder  merits  well. 
The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 
Repeating  the  same  timid  cry,  [space 

This  dog  had  been  through  three  months' 
A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  traveller  died, 
The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 
Or  by  his  master's  side  : 
How  nourished  here  through  such  long  tint 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime  ; 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling  great 
Above  all  human  estimate. 


TO  THE  LADY  , 

ON  SEEING  THE  FOUNDATION  PREPARING 

FOR    THE   ERECTION   OF   CHAPEL, 

WESTMORELAND. 

Blest  is  this  isle — our  native  land  ; 

Where  battlement  and  moated  gate 

Are  objects  only  for  the  hand 

Of  hoary  time  to  decorate  : 
I  Where  shady  hamlet,  town  that  breathes 
j  Its  busy  smoke  in  social  wreaths, 
j  No  rampart's  stern  defence  require, 

Nought  but  the  heaven-directed  spire, 

And  steeple  tower  (with  pealing  bells 

Far  heard) — our  only  citadels. 

O  lady  !  from  a  noble  line 
Of  chieftains  sprung,  who  stoutly  bore 
The  spear,  yet  gave  to  works  divine 
A  bounteous  help  in  days  of  yore, 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION.  987 


(As  records  mouldering  in  the  dell 
Of  nightshade*  haply  yet  may  tell) 
Thee  kindred  aspirations  moved 
To  build,  within  a  vale  beloved, 
For  him  upon  whose  high  behests 
All  peace  depends,  all  safety  rests. 

Well  may  the  villagers  rejoice  ! 
Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weary  ways, 
Will  be  a  hindrance  to  th,  voice 
That  would  unite  in  prayer  and  praise  ; 
More  duly  shall  wild-wandering  youth 
Receive  the  curb  of  sacred  truth, 
Shall  tottering  age,  bent  earthward,  hear 
The  promise,  with  uplifted  ear  ! 
And  all  shall  welcome  the  new  ray 
Imparted  to  their  Sabbath-day. 

Even  strangers,  slackening  here  their  pace, 
Shall  hail  this  work  of  pious  care, 
Lifting  its  front  with  modest  grace 
To  make  a  fair  recess  more  fair  ; 
And  to  exalt  the  passing  hour  ; 
Or  soothe  it,  with  a  healing  power 
Drawn  from  the  sacrifice  fulfilled, 
Before  this  rugged  soil  was  tilled, 
Or  human  habitation  rose 
To  interrupt  the  deep  repose  ! 

Not  yet  the  corner  stone  is  laid 
With  solemn  rite  ;  but  fancy  sees 
The  tower  time-stricken,  and  in  shade 
Embosomed  of  coeval  trees  ; 
Hears,  o'er  the  lake,  the  warning  clock 
As  it  shall  sound  with  gentle  shock 
At  evening,  when  the  ground  beneath 
Is  ruffled  o'er  with  cells  of  death  ; 
Where  happy  generations  lie, 
Here  tutored  for  eternity. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  sole  delights 
Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise, 
Hardening  a  heart  that  loathes  or  slights 
What  every  natural  heart  enjoys  ? 
Who  never  caught  a  noon-tide  dream 
From  murmur  of  a  running  stream  ; 
Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 
To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields  ; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds. 

A  soul  so  pitiably  forlorn, 

If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide, 


May  season  apathy  with  scorn, 
May  turn  indifference  to  pride, 
And  still  be  not  unblest— compared 
With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 
From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 
Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope ; 
Or,  shipwrecked,  kindles  on  the  coast 
False  fires,  that  others  may  be  lost. 

Alas !  that  such  perverted  zeal 
Should  spread  on  Britain's  favoured  ground  ? 
That  public  order,  private  weal, 
Should  e'er  have  felt  or  feared  a  wound 
From  champions  of  the  desperate  law 
Which  from   their  own  blind  hearts  they 

draw  ; 
Who  tempt  their  reason  to  deny 
God,  whom  their  passions  dare  defy, 
And  boast  that  they  alone  are  free 
Who  reach  this  dire  extremity  ! 

But  turn  we  from  these  "bold  bad  "  men  ; 
The  wi;y,  mild  lady  !  that  hath  led 
Down  to  their  "dark  opprobrious  den," 
Is  all  too  rough  for  thee  to  tread. 
Softly  as  morning  vapours  glide 
Through    Mosedale-cove  from  Carrock's 

side, 
Should  move  the  tenor  of  his  song 
Who  means  to  charity  no  wrong ; 
Whose  offering  gladly  would  accord 
With  this  day's  work  in  thought  and  word. 

Heaven  prosper  it !  may  peace  and  love, 
And  hope,  and  consolation  fail, 
Through  its  meek  influence  from  above, 
And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all ; 
All  who,  around  the  hallowed  fane, 
Shall  sojourn  in  this  fair  domain  ; 
Grateful  to  thee,  while  service  pure, 
And  ancient  ordinance,  shall  endure, 
For  opportunity  bestowed 
To  kneel  together,  and  adore  their  God  ! 


ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

"  Oh  !  gather  whencesoe'er  ye  safely  may 
The  help  which  slackening  piety  requires  : 
Nor  deem  that  he  perforce  must  go  astray 
Who  treads  upon  the  footmarks  of  his  sires. 


*  Bekangs  Ghyll— or  the  Vale  of  Nightshade 
—in  which  stands  St.  Mary's  Abbey,  in  Luw 
Kurness. 


Our  churches,    invariably  perhaps,   stand   east 

and  west,  but  why  is  by  few   persons  ejaattly 

known  ;  nor,  that  the  degree  of  deviation  from 

due  east,  often  noticeable  in  the  ancient  ones, 

I      was  determined,  in  each  particular  case,  by 

\      the  point  in  the  horizon,  at  which  the  sun  rose 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


upon  the  day  of  the  saint  to  whom  the  church 
was  dedicated.  These  observances  of  our 
ancestors,  and  the  causes  of  them,  are  the 
subject  of  the  following  stanzas. 

When  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear 
And  feudal  rapine  clothed  with  iron  mail, 
Came  ministers  of  peace,  intent  to  rear 
The  mother  church  in  yon  sequestered  vale ; 

Then,  to  her  patron  saint  a  previous  rite 
Resounded  with  deep  swell   and  solemn 

close, 
Through  unremitting  vigils  of  the  night, 
Till  from   his  couch   the    wished-for  sun 

uprose. 

He    rose,    and    straight  —  as    by   divine 

command, 
They  who  had  waited  for  that  sign  to  trace 
Their  work's  foundation,  gave  with  careful 

hand, 
To  the  high  altar  its  determined  place  ; 

Mindful  of  Him  who  in  the  Orient  born 
There   lived,    and    on    the  cross  his  life 

resigned, 
And  who,  from  out  the  regions  of  the  morn, 
Issuing  in    pomp,     shall  come    to  judge 

mankind. 

So  taught  their  creed  ;  —  nor  failed  the 

eastern  sky, 
'Mid  these  more  awful  feelings,  to  infuse 
The  sweet  and  natural  hopes  that  shall  not 

die 
Long    as    the  sun   his   gladsome   course 

renews. 

For  us  hath  such  prelusive  vigil  ceased  ; 
Yet  still  we  plant,  like  men  of  elder  days, 
Our  Christian  altar  faithful  to  the  east, 
Whence  the  tall  window  drinks  the  morning 
rays  ; 

That  obvious  emblem  giving  to  the  eye 
Of  meelv  devotion,  which  erewhile  it  gave, 
That  symbol  of  the  dayspring  from  on  high, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 


THE  FORCE  OF  PRAYER  ;* 

OR,  THE  FOUNDING  OF  BOLTON  PKIORY. 
(A  TRADITION.) 

"  a&tfmt  is  gooto  for  a  footless  be ne  ?" 
With  these  dark  words  begins  my  tale ; 

*  See  "  The  White  Doe  of  Rvlstone,"  page  23a. 


And  their  meaning  is,  Whence  can  comfo'4 

spring 
When  prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? 

"  TOnt  fs  gooU  for  a  bootless  bene  ?" 

The  falconer  to  the  lady  said  ; 

And  she  made  answer,  "  Endless  sorrow  !' 

For  she  knew  that  her  son  was  dead. 

She  knew  it  by  the  falconer's  words, 
And  from  the  look  of  the  falconer's  eye  ; 
And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Romilly. 

Young  Romilly  through  Barden  woods 
Is  ranging  high  and  low ; 
And  holds  a  greyhound  in  a  leash, 
To  let  slip  upon  buck  or  doe. 

The  pair  have  reached  that  fearful  chasm, 
How  tempting  to  bestride ! 
For  lordly  Wharf  is  there  pent  in, 
With  rocks  on  either  side. 

This  striding-place  is  called  The  Strid, 
A  name  which  it  took  of  yore  : 
A  thousand  years  hath  it  borne  that  name, 
And  shall  a  thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come, 
And  what  may  now  forbid 
That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Shall  bound  across  The  Strid  ? 

He  sprang  in  glee, — for  what  cared  he 
That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the  rocks 

were  steep  ? 
But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back, 
And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force ; 
For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  sec:.! 
Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

Now  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale, 
And  deep  unspeaking  sorrow  : 
Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 
A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow. 

If  for  a  lover  the  lady  wept, 
A  solace  she  might  borrow 
From    death,  and    from    the    passion  o\ 

death  ; — 
Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrow  : 
Her  hope  was  a  farther-looking  hope, 
And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave  ; 
And  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 
Was  in  her  husband's  grave  1 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit, 
And  her  first  words  were,  "  Let  there  be 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf, 
A  stately  priory  1" 

The  stately  priory  was  reared  ; 
And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along, 
To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice, 
Nor  failed  at  even-song. 

And  the  lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  relief ! 
But  slowly  did  her  succour  come, 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh  !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  Friend  ! 


A  FACT,  AND  AN   IMAGINATION  ; 

OR,    CANUTE   AND   ALFRED. 

The  Danish  conqueror,  on  his  royal  chair, 
Mustering  a  face  of  haughty  sovereignty, 
To  aid  a  covert  purpose,  cried — "  Oh,  ye 
Approaching  waters  of  the  deep,  that  share 
With  this  green  isle  my  fortunes,  come  not 

where 
Your    master's    throne    is    set !" — Absurd 

decree ! 
A  mandate  uttered  to  the  foaming  sea 
Is  to  its  motion  less  than  wanton  air. 
Then  Canute,  rising  from  the  invaded  throne, 
Said  to  his  servile  courtiers, ' '  Poor  the  reach, 
The  undisguised  extent,  of  mortal  sway  ! 
He  only  is  a  king,  and  he  alone 
Deserves  the  name  (this  truth  the  billows 

preach) 
Whose    everlasting    law,   sea,   earth,   and 

heaven  obey." 
This  just  reproof  the  prosperous  Dane 
Drew,  from  the  influx  of  the  main, 
For  some  whose  rugged  northern  mouths 

would  strain 
At  oriental  flattery  ; 


And  Canute  (truth  more  worthy  to  beknown) 
ITroiri  that  time  forth  did  for  his  brows  disown 
The  ostentatious  symbol  of  a  crown  ; 
Esteeming  earthly  royalty 
Contemptible  and  vain. 

Now  hear  what  one  of  elder  days, 
Rich  theme  of  England's  fondest  praise, 
Her  darling  Alfred,  might  have  spoken  ; 
To  cheer  the  remnant  of  his  host 
When  he  was  driven  from  coast  to  coast, 
Distressed  and  harassed,  but  with  mind  un- 
broken : 
"My  faithful  followers,  lo !  the  tide  is  spent ; 
That  rose,  and  steadily  advanced  to  fill 
The  shores  and  channels,  working  nature's 

will 
Among  the  ;nazy  streams  that  backward 

went, 
And  in  the  sluggish  pools  where  ships  are 

pent ; 
And  now,  its   task   performed,  the    flood 

stands  still 
At  the  green  base  of  many  an  inland  hill, 
In  placid  beauty  and  sublime  content! 
Such  the  repose  that  sage  and  hero  find  ; 
Such  measured  rest  the  sedulous  and  good 
Of  humbler  name  ;  whose  souls  do,  like  the 

flood 
Of  ocean,  press  right  on  ;  or  gently  wind, 
Neither  to  be  diverted  nor  withstood, 
Until  they  reach  the  bounds  by  Heaven  as- 
signed." 


"  A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on  /" 
What  trick  of  memory  to  my  voice  hath 

brought 
This  mournful  iteration  ?  For  though  Time, 
The  conqueror,  crowns  the  conquered,  on 

this  brow 
Planting  his  favourite  silver  diadem, 
Nor  he,  nor  minister  of  his — intent 
To  run  before  him,  hath  enrolled  me  yet, 
Though  not  unmenaced,  among  those  who 

lean 
Upon  a  living  staff,  with  borrowed  sight. 
O  my  Antigone,  beloved  child  ! 
Should  that  day  come — but  hark  !  the  birds 

salute 
The  cheerful  dawn,  brightening  for  me  the 

east ; 
For  me,  thy  natural  leader,  once  again 
Impatient  to  conduct  thee,  not  as  erst 
A  tottering  infant,  with  compliant  stoop 
From  flower  to  flower  supported  ;  but  to 

curb 


290 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  ANB  REFLECTION. 


Thy  nymph-like  step  swift-bounding  o'er 

the  lawn, 
Along  the  loose  rocks,  or  the  slippery  verge 
Of  foaming  torrent. — From  thy  orisons 
Come  forth  ;  and,  while  the  morning  air  is 

yet 
Transparent  as  the  soul  of  innocent  youth, 
Let  me,   thy  happy  guide,  now  point  thy 

way, 
And  now  precede  thee,  winding  to  and  fro, 
Till  we  by  perseverance  gain  the  top 
Of  some  smooth  ridge,  whose  brink  pre- 
cipitous 
Kindles  intense  desire  for  powers  withheld 
From  this  corporeal  frame  ;  whereon  who 

stands, 
Is  seized  with  strong  incitement  to  push 

forth 
His  arms,  as  swimmers  use,  and  plunge — 

dread  thought  S 
For  pastime   plunge  —  into   the    "abrupt 

abyss," 
Where  ravens  spread  their  plumy  vans,  at 

ease ! 

And  yet  more  gladly  thee  would  I  con- 
duct 
Through  woods  and  spacious  forests, — to 

behold 
There,  how  the  original  of  human  art, 
Heaven-prompted    nature,    measures   and 

erects 
Her  temples,  fearless  for  the  stately  work, 
Though  waves  in  every  breeze  its   high- 
arched  roof, 
And  storms  the  pillars  rock.     But  we  such 

schools 
Of  reverential  awe  will  chiefly  seek 
In  the  still  summer  noon,  while  beams  of 

light, 
Reposing  here,  and  in  the  aisles  beyond 
Traceably  gliding  through  the  dusk,  recall 
To  mind  the  living  presences  of  nuns  ; 
A  gentle,  pensive,  white-robed  sisterhood, 
Whose  saintly  radiance  mitigates  the  gloom 
Of    those  terrestrial    fabrics,    where    they 

serve, 
To    Christ,    the    Sun    of    Righteousness, 
espoused. 

Now  also  shall  the  page  of  classic  lore, 
To   these  glad  eyes  from  bondage  freed, 

again 
Lie  open  ;  and  the  book  of  Holy  Writ, 
Again  unfolded,  passage  clear  shall  yield 
To  heights  more  glorious  still,   and  into 

shades 


More  awful,  where  advancing  hand  in  hand 
We  may  be  taught,  O  darling  of  my  care  ! 
To  calm  the  affections,  elevate  the  soul, 
And  consecrate  our  lives  to  truth  and  love. 


SEPTEMBER,  1819. 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields 
Are  hung,  as  if  with  golden  shields, 
Bright  trophies  of  the  sun  ! 
Like  a  fair  sister  of  the  sky, 
Unruffled  doth  the  blue  lake  lie, 
The  mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove, 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love, 
By  love  untaught  to  ring, 
May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 
Than  music  of  the  spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 
Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 
In  nature's  struggling  frame, 
Some  region  of  impatient  life  ; 
And  jealousy,  and  quivering  strife, 
Therein  a  portion  claim. 

This,  this  is  holy  ;— while  I  hear 
These  vespers  of  another  year, 
This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise, 
My  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 
The  anxieties  of  human  love, 
And  earth's  precarious  days. 

But  list ! — though  winter  storms  be  nigh 
Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony  : 
There  lives  who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures  ;  and  in  Him, 
Even  like  the  radiant  seraphim, 
These  choristers  confide. 


UPON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Departing  summer  hath  assumed 
An  aspect  tenderly  illumed, 
The  gentlest  look  of  spring  ; 
That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade 
Unfaded,  yet  prepared  to  fade, 
A  timely  caroling. 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill, 
Such  tribute  as  to  winter  chill 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION.  291 


The  lonely  redbreast  pays  ! 
Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din, 
From  social  warblers  gathering  in 
Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 
Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere, 
And  yellow  on  the  bough  : — 
Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head  ! 
Ve  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragrance  shed 
Around  a  younger  brow  ! 

Yet  will  I  temperately  rejoice  : 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice 

Df  undiscordant  themes  ; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 

Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies, 

And  passion's  feverish  dreams. 

For  deatnless  powers  to  verse  belong, 
And  they  like  demi-gods  are  strong 
On  whom  the  muses  smile  ; 
But  some  their  function  have  disclaimed, 
Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 
To  enervate  and  defile. 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 

Committed  to  the  silent  plains 

In  Britain's  earliest  dawn  : 

Trembled  the  groves,  the  stars  grew  pale, 

While  all  too-daringly  the  veil 

Of  nature  was  withdrawn  ! 

Nor  such  the  spirit-stirring  note 
When  the  live  chords  Alcseus  smote, 
Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong  ; 
Woe  !  woe  to  tyrants  !  from  the  lyre 
Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 
Pf  fierce  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallowed  was  the  page 
By  winged  love  inscribed,  to  assuage 
The  pangs    i  vair  pursuit ; 
Love  listening  while  ihe  Lesbian  maid 
With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 
Her  own  ^olian  lute. 

O  ye  who  patiently  explore 
The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore, 
What  rapture  !  could  ye  seize 
Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unrol 
One  precious,  tender-hearted  scroll 
Of  pure  Simonides. 

That  were,  indeed,  a  genuine  birth 
Of  poesy  ;  a  bursting  forth 


Of  genius  from  the  dust  : 
What  Horace  gloried  to  behold, 
What  Maro  1<  ved,  shall  we  enfold? 
Can  haughty  time  be  just ! 


THE  PILLAR  OF  TRAJAN. 

Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unfor- 
bidden weeds 

O'er  mutilated  arches  shed  their  seeds  ; 

And  temples,  doomed  to  milder  change, 
unfold 

A  new  magnificence  that  vies  with  old  ; 

Firm  in  its  pristine  majesty  hath  stood 

A  votive  column,  spared  by  fire  and 
flood  ;— 

And,  though  the  passions  of  man's  fretful 
race 

Have  never  ceased  to  eddy  round  its  base, 

Not  ii.jured  more  by  touch  of  meddling 
hands 

Than  a  lone  obelisk,  'mid  Nubian  sands, 

Or  aught  in  Syrian  deserts  left  to  save 

From  death  the  memory  of  the  good  and 
brave. 

Historic  figures  round  the  shaft  embost 

Ascend,  with  lineaments  in  air  not  lost  : 

Still  as  he  turns,  the  charmed  spectator 
sees 

Group  winding  after  group  with  dream- 
like ease  ; 

Triumphs  in  sunbright  gratitude  displayed, 

Or  softly  stealing  into  modest  shade. 

So,  pleased  with  purple  clusters  to  en- 
twine 

Some  lofty  elm-tree,  mounts  the  daring 
vine  ; 

The  woodbine  so,  with  spiral  grace,  and 
breathes 

Wide-spreading  odours  from  her  flowery 
wreaths. 

Borne  »by  the  muse  from  rills  in  shep- 
herds' ears 

Murmuring  but  one  smooth  story  for  all 
years, 

I  gladly  commune  with  the  mind  and 
heart 

Of  him  who  thus  survives  by  classic  art. 

His  actions  witness,  venerate  his  mien, 

And  study  Trajan  as  by  Pliny  seen  ; 

Behold  how  fought  the  chief  whose  con- 
quering sword 

Stretched  far  as  earth  might  own  a  single 
lord/ 


292. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


In  the  delight  of  moral  prudence  schooled, 
How    feelingly    at    home    the    sovereign 

ruled  ; 
Best  of  the  good— in  pagan  faith  allied 
To  more  than  man  by  virtue  deified. 


Memorial    pillar  !    'mid  the  wrecks  of 

time 
Preserve  thy  charge  with  confidence  sub- 
lime— 
The    exultations,    pomps,    and    cares   of 

Rome, 
Whence  half  the  breathing  world  received 

its  doom  ; 
Things  that  recoil  from  language  ;  that,  if 

shown 
By  apter  pencil,  from  the  light  had  flown. 
A  pontiff,  Trajan  here  the  gods  implores, 
There    greets    an    embassy    from    Indian 

shores  ; 
Lo  !  he  harangues  his  cohorts — there  the 

storm 
Of  battle  meets  him  in  authentic  form  ! 
Unharnessed,    naked,    troops  of  Moorish 

horse 
Sweep   to   the  charge  ;    more    high,    the 

Dacian  force, 
To  hoof  and  finger  mailed  ; — yet,  high  or 

low, 
None  bleed,  and  none  lie  prostrate  but  the 

foe  ; 
In  every  Roman,  through  all  turns  of  fate, 
Is  Roman  dignity  nviolate  ; 
Spirit  in  him  pre-eminent  ;  who  guides, 
Supports,  adorns,  and  over  all  presides  ; 
Distinguished  only  by  inherent  state 
From   honoured   instruments    that    round 

him  wait ; 
Rise  as  he  mav,  his  grandeur  scorns  the 

test 
Of  outward  symbol,  nor  will  deign  to  rest 
On  aught  by  which  another  is  deprest.* 
Alas  !  that  one  thus  disciplined  could  toil 
To  enslave  whole  nations  on  their  native 

soil  ; 
So  emulous  of  Macedonian  fame, 
That,  when  his  age  was  measured  with  his 

aim, 
He  drooped,  'mid  else  unclouded  victories, 
And   turned  his   eagles  back  with  deep- 
drawn  sighs  ; 
Oh,  weakness  of  the  great !  Oh,  folly  of 

the  wise  ! 


Where  now  the  haughty  empire  that  was 
spread 
With  such  fond  hope  ?  her  very  speech  is 

dead  ; 
Yet  glorious  art  the  sweep  of  time  defies, 
And  Trajan  still,  through  various  enter- 
prise, 
Mounts,  in  this  fine  illusion,  toward  the 

skies  : 
Still  are  we  present  with  the  imperial  chief, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  upon  the  bold  relief 
Till  Rome,  to  silent  marble  unconfined, 
Becomes  with  all  her  years  a  vision  of  the 
mind. 


DION. 


See  Forsyth. 


(SEE   PLUTARCH.) 

Fair  is  the  swan,   whose  majesty,   pre- 

vailing 
O'er  breezeless  water,  on  Locarno's  lake, 
Bears  him  on  while  proudly  sailing 
He  leaves  behind  a  moon-illumined  wake  : 
Behold  !  the  mantling  spirit  of  reserve 
Fashions  his  neck  into  a  goodly  curve  ; 
An  arch   thrown  back  between  luxuriant 

wings 
Of  whitest  garniture,  like  fir-tree  boughs 
To    which    on    some   unruffled    morning 

clings 
A  flaky  weight  of  winter's  purest  snows  ! 
Behold ! — as     with    a     gushing     impulse 

heaves 
That  downy  prow,  and  softly  cleaves 
The  mirror  of  the  crystal  flood, 
Vanish  inverted  hill,  and  shadowy  wood, 
And  pendant   rocks,  where'er,   in  gliding 

state, 
Winds  the  mute  creature  without  visible 

mate 
Or  rival,  save  the  queen  of  night 
Showering  down  a  silver  light, 
From  heaven,  upon  her  chosen  favourite  ! 

So  pure,  so  bright,  so  fitted  to  embrace, 
Where'er  he  turned,  a  natural  grace 
Of  haughtiness  without  pretence, 
And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 
Was  princely  Dion  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 
Nor  less  the  homage  that  was  seen  ta 

wait 
On  Dion's  virtues,  when  the  lunar  beam 
Of  Plato's  genius,  from  its  lofty  spnere, 
Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere ;— 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


293 


That  he,  not  too  elate 
With  self-sufficing  solitude, 
But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 

Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign, 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

Five  thousand  warriors— Oh,  the  rapturous 

day ! 
Each  crowned  with  flowers,  and  armed  with 

spear  and  shield, 
Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might 

yield, 
To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 
Who  leads  them  on?— The  anxious  people 

see 
Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head, 
He  also  crowned  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 
And  in  a  white,  far-beaming,  corselet  clad  ! 
Pure  transport  undisturbed  by  doubt  or 

fear 
The  gazers  feel  ;  and  rushing  to  the  plain, 
Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train 
Or  blest  procession  (to  the  immortals  dear) 
That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again. 
Lo  !  when  the  gates  are  entered,  on  each 

hand, 
Down   the  long  street,  rieh  goblets  filled 

with  wine 

In  seemly  order  stand, 
On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine  ; — 
And,  as  the  great  deliverer  marches  by, 
He   looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits 

bestrown  ; 
And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 

In  boundless  prodigality ; 
Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from 

prayer, 

Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care, 
As  if  a  very  Deity  he  were  ! 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves   of  Attica !  and 

mourn 
Ilissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn  ! 
Mourn,   and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit 

dreads 
Your  once-sweet  memory,   studious  walks 

and  shades  ! 
For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired, 
Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause, 
But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 
Framed  in  the  schools  where  wisdom  dwelt 

retired, 
Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right 
(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway 

paved  with  stars) 
Which  Dion  learned  to  measure  with  de- 
light ; 


But  he  hath  overleaped  the  eternal  bars  ; 
And,  following  guides  whose  craft   holds 

no  consent 
With  aught   that    breathes    the   ethereal 

element, 
Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power  with 

blood, 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 
Whence  doubts  that   came  too  late,  and 

wishes  vain, 
Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain  ; 
And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low 
As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart, 
The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go  ; 
But  whence  that  sudden  check  ?  that  fear- 
ful start  ! 

He  hears  an  uncouth  sound — 
Anon  his  lifted  eyes 
Saw  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound, 
A  shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 
And   hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and 
round ; 

A  woman's  garb  that  phantom  wore, 
And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor,  — 
Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro. 
His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try  ; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Masnalus  he  stops 
His  flight,  'mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops  ' 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping 

The  sullen  spectre  to  her  purpose  bowed, 
Sweeping — vehemently  sweeping — 

Nc  pause  admitted,  no  design  avowed  ? 

"  Avaunt,  inexplicable  guest  ! — avaunt!" 

Exclaimed  the  chieftain — "  Let  me  rather 
see 

The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make  ; 

The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid 
flake, 

And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 

Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  furies 
haunt : 

Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge- 
to  flee, 

Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn. 

And,    in   their  anguish,    bear  what  other 
minds  have  borne!" 

But  shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthlv 

call, 
Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid  ; 
Lords  of  the  visionary  eye  whose  lid 
Once  raised,  remains  aghast  and  will  n  t 

fell! 
Ye  g  ds,  thought  he,  that  servile  implemen' 
[  Obeys  a  mystical  intent ! 


294 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION 


Your  minister  would  brush  away 
The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere; 
But  should  she  labour  night  and  day, 
They  will  not,  cannot  disappear  ;        [look 
Whence    angry   perturbations,— and    that 
Which  no  philosophy  can  brook  ! 

Ill-fated  chief ;  there  are  whose  hopes  are 

built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name  ; 
Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's 

guilt, 
Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim  ! 
O  matchless  perfidy  !  portentous  lust 
Of  monstrous  crime  ! — thai  horror-striking 

blade, 
Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  gods,  hath  laid 
The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust  ! 
Shudder  the  walls — the  marble  city  wept — 
And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive  sigh  ; 
But   in  calm  peace  the  appointed  victim 

slept, 
As  he  had  fallen  in  magnanimity  ; 
Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 
That  destiny  her  course  should  change  ;  too 

just 
To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 
That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened  by 

mistrust. 
So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 
The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 
Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely 

state, 
He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  fate — 
' '  Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  at- 
tends, 
Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends, 
Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his 

ends." 


M  EMORY. 

A  PEN — to  register  ;  a  key — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards  ; 
hre  well  assigned  to  memory 
By  allegoric  bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 

A  pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 

Outstrips  the  heart's  demand  ; 

That  smooths  foregone  distress,  the  lines 
Of  lingering  care  subdues, 
Long-vanished  happiness  refines, 
And  clothes  in  brighter  hues  : 


Yet,  like  a  tool  of  fancy,  works 
Those  spectres  to  dilate 
That  startle  conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

Oh,  that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast, 
In  purity  were  such, 
That  not  an  image  of  the  past 
Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch  ! 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook, 
Contented  and  serene ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep, 
In  frosty  moonlight  glistening  ; 
Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 
To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 
O  Duty  ?  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 
And    calm'st    the    weary    strife    of 
humanity ! 


frail 


There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  ; 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not  : 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 
But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them 
to  stand  fast ! 


Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to 
their  need. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT.  AND  REFLECTION. 


205 


I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried  ; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Vet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust  : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly, 
if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control  ; 

Hut  in  the  quietness  of  thought  : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires  ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My   hopes  no   more   must   change    their 

name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 


Stern  lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  ; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient   heavens,   through 
thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power  ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let 
me  live  ! 


296 


*§mm*  Inferring  ta  %  ^mob  oi  #ftr  %Qt. 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR. 

Hie  class  of  beggars,  to  which  the  old  man  here  described  belongs,  will  probably  soon  be  extinct. 
It  consisted  of  poor,  and,  mostly,  old  and  infirm  persons,  who  confined  themselves  to  a  stated 
round  in  their  neighbourhood,  and  had  certain  fixed  days,  on  which,  at  different  houses,  they 
regularly  received  alms,  sometimes  in  money,  but  mostly  in  provisions. 

I  saw  an  aged  beggar  in  my  walk  ; 
And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway  side, 
On  a  low  structure  cf  rude  masonry- 
Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 
Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  road 
May  thence  remount  at  ease.     The  aged  man 
Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 
That  overlays  the  pile  ;  and,  from  a  bag 
All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 
He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one  ; 
And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  serious  look 
Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun, 
Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 
Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 
He  sc:t,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude  : 
And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand, 
That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 
Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 
Fell  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  small  mountain  birds, 
Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal, 
Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known  ;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now  ; 
He  travels  oh,  a  solitary  man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  horsemen-traveller  does  not  throw 
With  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground, 
But  stops, — that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so, 
But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein, 
Watches  the  aged  beggar  with  a  look 
Sidelong — and  half-reverted.     She  who  tends 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 
And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 
The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 
The  aged  beggar  in  the  woody  lane, 
Shouts  to  him  from  behind  ;  and,  if  thus  warned 
The  old  man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  boy 


TIIE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE.  297 

Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  road-side, 
And  passes  gently  by — without  a  curse 
Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart. 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man  ; 
His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along. 
They  move  along  the  ground  ;  and,  evermoM, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale, 
And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect.     Thus,  from  day  to  day, 
Row-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  ground, 
He  plies  his  weary  journey  ;  seeing  still, 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw, 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  tracK, 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot-wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road,— in  the  same  line, 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  traveller  ! 
His  staff  trails  with  him  ;  scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust  ;  he  is  so  still 
In  look  and  motion,  that  the  cottage  curs, 
Ere  he  have  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away, 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls, 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths, 
And  urchins  newly  breeched— all  pass  him  by  : 
Him  even  the  slow-paced  waggon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  man  useless.— Statesmen  !  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances  ;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  and  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burthen  of  the  earth  !     'Tis  nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good— a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.     While  thus  he  creeps 
From  door  to  door,  the  villagers  in  him 
Behold  a  record  which  together  binds 
Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity, 
Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 
And  that  half-wisdom  half-experience  gives, 
Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 
To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 
Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 
Hamlets  and  thinly-scattered  villages, 
Where'er  the  aged  beggar  takes  his  rounds, 
The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 
To  acts  of  love  ;  and  habit  does  the  work 
Of  reason  ;  yet  prepares  that  after-joy 
Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 
By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 
Doth  find  iteelf  insensibly  disposed 
To  virtue  and  true  goodness.     Some  ther«  tt» 


29S  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 

By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 

And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 

And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 

Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle  :  even  such  minds 

In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  being, 

Or  from  like  wanderer,  haply  have  received 

(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 

Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do  !) 

That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 

In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world 

Where  want  and  sorrow  were.    The  easy  man 

Who  sits  at  his  own  door, — and,  like  the  pear 

That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall, 

Feeds  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  robust  and  young, 

The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live 

Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  little  grove 

Of  their  own  kindred  ;— all  behold  in  him 

A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 

Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 

Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart 

Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 

His  charters  and  exemptions  ;  and,  perchance, 

Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 

And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 

His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up 

The  respite  of  the  seasons,  he,  at  least, 

And  'tis  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 


Yet  further.— Many,  I  believe,  there  are 
Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 
Men  who  oan  hear  the  decalogue  and  feel 
No  self-reproach  ;  who  of  the  moral  law 
Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 
Are  strict  observers  ;  and  not  negligent, 
In  acts  of  love  to  thos^  with  whom  they  dwell, 
Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  their  blood. 
Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace  ! 
But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor  ; 
Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here 
In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 
And  these  inevitable  charities, 
Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul  ? 
No — man  is  dear  to  man  ;  the  poorest  poor 
Long  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 
When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been, 
Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers  out 
Of  some  small  blessings  ;  have  been  kind  to  such 
As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause, 
That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 
Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  being  known, 
My  neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  week, 
Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 
By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 
Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 
Of  this  old  mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 
Returning  with  exhilarated  heart, 
Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE  299 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And  while  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Unblamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him  :  and,  while  life  is  his, 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts. 
Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys  ;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows  ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  gray  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry, 
Make  him  a  captive  !  for  that  pent-up  din, 
Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air, 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  ! 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes  ; 
And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 
The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 
Few  are  his  pleasures  :  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  on  the  earth 
That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 
Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 
And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  grassy  bank 
Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  his  chance-gathered  meal  ;  and,  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of  nature  let  him  die  ! 


THE  FARMER  OF  TILSBURY  VALE. 

'Tis  not  for  the  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined, 
The  squeamish  in  taste,  and  narrow  of  mind, 
And  the  small  critic  wielding  his  delicate  pen, 
That  I  sing  of  old  Adam,  the  pride  of  old  men. 

He  dwells  in  the  centre  of  London's  wide  town  ; 
His  staff  is  a  sceptre — his  gray  hairs  a  crown  ; 
Erect  as  a  sunflower  he  stands,  and  the  streak 
Of  the  unfaded  rose  still  enlivens  his  cheek. 

'Mid  the  dews,  in  the  sunshine  of  morn, — 'mid  the  joy 
Of  the  fields,  he  collected  that  bloom,  when  a  boy  ; 
There  fashioned  that  countenance,  which,  in  spite  of  a  stain 
That  his  life  hath  received,  to  the  last  will  remain. 


300  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 

A  farmer  he  was  ;  and  his  house  far  and  near 

Was  the  boast  of  the  country  for  excellent  cheer  : 

How  oft  have  I  heard  in  sweet  Tilsbury  vale 

Of  the  silver-rimmed  horn  whenc-  he  dealt  his  mild  ale  ! 

Yet  Adam  was  far  as  the  farthest  from  ruin, 
His  fields  seemed  to  know  what  their  master  was  doing  ; 
And  turnips,  and  corn-land,  and  meadow,  and  lea, 
All  caught  the  infection — as  generous  as  he. 

Yet  Adam  prized  little  the  feast  and  the  bowl,— 
The  fields  better  suited  the  ease  of  his  soul : 
He  strayed  through  the  fields  like  an  indolent  wight, 
The  quiet  of  nature  was  Adam's  delight. 

For  Adam  was  simple  in  thought,  and  the  poor, 
Familiar  with  him,  made  an  inn  of  his  door  : 
He  gave  them  the  best  that  he  had  ;  or,  to  say 
What  less  may  mislead  you,  they  took  it  away. 

Thus  thirty  smooth  years  did  he  thrive  on  his  farm  ; 
The  genius  of  plenty  preserved  him  from  harm  : 
At  length,  what  to  most  is  a  season  of  sorrow, 
His  means  are  run  out,  he  must  beg,  or  must  borrow. 

To  the  neighbours  he  went,— all  were  free  with  their  money ; 
For  his  hive  had  so  long  been  replenished  with  honey, 
That  they  dreamt  not  of  dearth  ;— he  continued  his  rounds, 
Knocked  here— and  knocked  there,  pounds  still  adding  to  pounds. 

He  paid  what  he  could  with  this  ill-gotten  pelf, 
And  something,  it  might  be,  reserved  for  himself : 
Then,  (what  is  too  true,)  without  hinting  a  word, 
Turned  his  back  on  the  country  ;  and  off  like  a  bird. 

You  lift  up  your  eyes  !— but  I  guess  that  you  frame 
A  judgment  too  harsh  of  the  sin  and  the  shame  ; 
In  him  it  was  scarcely  a  business  of  art, 
For  this  he  did  all  in  the  ease  of  his  heart. 

To  London — a  sad  emigration  I  ween — 
With  his  gray  hairs  he  went  from  the  brook  and  the  green  ; 
And  there  with  small  wealth  but  his  legs  and  his  hands, 
As  lonely  he  stood  as  a  crow  on  the  sands. 

All  trades,  as  need  was,  did  old  Adam  assume, — 
Served  as  stable-boy,  errand-boy,  porter,  and  groom  ; 
But  nature  is  gracious,  necessity  kind, 
And,  in  spite  of  the  shame  that  may  lurk  in  his  mind, 

He  seems  ten  birthdays  younger,  is  green  and  is  stout  ; 
Twice  as  fast  as  before  does  his  blood  run  about  ; 
You  would  say  that  each  hair  of  his  beard  was  alive, 
And  his  fingers  are  busy  as  bees  in  a  hive. 

For  he's  not  like  an  old  man  that  leisurely  goes 
About  work  that  he  knows,  in  a  track  that  he  knows  ; 
But  often  his  mind  is  compelled  to  demur, 
And  you  guess  that  the  more  then  his  body  must  stir. 


THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE.  301 

In  the  throng  of  the  town  like  a  stranger  is  he, 
Like  one  whose  own  country's  far  over  the  sea  ; 
And  nature,  while  through  the  great  city  he  hies, 
Full  ten  times-a  day  takes  his  heart  by  surprise. 

This  gives  him  the  fancy  of  one  that  is  young, 
More  of  soul  in  his  face  than  of  words  on  his  tongue  ; 
Like  a  maiden  of  twenty  he  trembles  and  sighs, 
And  tears  of  fifteen  will  come  into  his  eyes. 

What's  a  tempest  to  him,  or  the  dry  parching  heats  ? 
Yet  he  watches  the  clouds  that  pass  over  the  streets  ; 
With  a  look  of  such  earnestness  often  will  stand, 
You  might  think  he'd  twelve  reapers  at  work  in  the  Strand. 

Where  proud  Covent  Garden,  in  desolate  hours 
Of  snow  and  hoar-frost,  spreads  her  fruit  and  her  flowers, 
Old  Adam  will  smile  at  the  pains  that  have  made 
Poor  winter  look  fine  in  such  strange  masquerade. 

'Mid  coaches  and  chariots,  a  waggon  of  straw, 
Like  a  magnet,  the  heart  of  old  Adam  can  draw  ; 
With  a  thousand  soft  pictures  his  memory  will  teem, 
And  his  hearing  is  touched  with  the  sounds  of  a  dream. 

Up  the  Haymarket  hill  he  oft  whistles  his  way, 
Thrusts  his  hands  in  the  waggon,  and  smells  at  the  hay ; 
He  thinks  of  the  fields  he  so  often  hath  mown, 
And  is  happy  as  if  the  rich  freight  were  his  own. 

But  chiefly  to  Smithfield  he  loves  to  repair, — 
If  you  pass  by  at  morning,  you'll  meet  with  him  there  : 
The  breath  of  the  cows  you  may  see  him  inhale, 
And  his  heart  all  the  while  is  in  Tilsbury  Vale. 

Now  farewell,  old  Adam  !  when  low  thou  art  laid, 
May  one  blade  of  grass  spring  up  over  thy  head  ; 
And  I  hope  that  thy  grave,  wheresoever  it  be, 
Will  hear  the  wind  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  a  tree. 


THE  SMALL  CELANDINE. 

There  is  a  flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks,  like  many  more,  from  cold  and  rain  ; 
And,  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  itself,  'tis  out  agai-n  1 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distressed, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm, 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  flower  I  passed 
And  recognized  it,  though  an  altered  form, 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 


;  )2  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 

I  stopped,  and  said  with  inly-muttered  voice, 
"  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold  : 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

"The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew  ; 
It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay  ; 
Stiff  in  its  members,  withered,  changed  of  hue." 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  gray. 

To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite— then,  worse  truth, 
A  miser's  pensioner — behold  our  lot ! 
O  man,  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  youth  needed  not ! 


THE  TWO  THIEVES ; 

OR,  THE  LAST  STAGE  OF  AVARICE. 

Oh,  now  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine, 
And  the  skill  which  he  learned  on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne ! 
Then  the  muses  might  deal  with  me  just  as  they  chose, 
For  I'd  take  my  last  leave  both  of  verse  and  of  prose. 

What  feats  would  I  work  with  my  magical  hand ! 
Book-learning  and  books  should  be  banished  the  land  : 
And,  for  hunger  and  thirst,  and  such  troublesome  calls, 
Every  alehouse  should  then  have  a  feast  on  its  walls. 

The  traveller  would  hang  his  wet  clothes  on  a  chair  ; 
Let  them  smoke,  let  them  burn,  not  a  straw  would  he  care  I 
For  the  Prodigal  Son,  Joseph's  dream  and  his  sheaves, 
Oh,  what  would  they  be  to  my  tale  of  two  thieves  ? 

The  one,  yet  unbreeched,  is  not  three  birthdays  old, 
His  grandsire  that  age  more  than  thirty  times  told  ; 
There  are  ninety  good  s-ason3  of  fair  and  foul  weather 
Between  them,  and  both  go  a-stealing  together. 

With  chips  is  the  carpenter  strewing  his  floor  ? 
Is  a  cart-load  of  turf  at  an  old  woman's  door  ? 
Old  Daniel  his  hand  to  the  treasure  will  slide  ! 
And  his  grandson's  as  busy  at  work  by  his  side. 

Old  Daniel  begins,  he  stops  short — and  his  eye. 
Through  the  iost  look  of  dotage,  is  cunning  and  sly. 
'Tis  a  look  which  at  this  time  is  hardly  his  own, 
But  tells  a  plain  tale  of  the  days  that  are  flown. 

He  once  had  a  heart  which  was  moved  by  the  wires 
Of  manifold  pleasures  and  many  desires  : 
And  what  if  he  cherished  his  purse  1     'Twas  no  more 
Than  treading  a  path  trod  by  thousands  before. 


7777?  PEUIOI)  OF  OLD  AGE.  SO* 

'Twas  a  path  trod  by  thousands  ;  but  Daniel  is  one 
Who  went  something  further  than  others  have  gone, 
And  now  with  old  Daniel  you  see  how  it  fares  ; 
You  see  to  what  end  he  has  brought  his  gray  hairs. 

The  pair  sally  forth  hand  in  hand  :  ere  the  sun 
Has  peered  o'er  the  beeches,  their  work  is  begun  : 
And  yet,  into  whatever  sin  they  may  fall, 
This  child  but  half  knows  it,  and  that  not  at  all. 

They  hunt  through  the  streets  with  deliberate  tread, 
And  each,  in  his  turn,  is  both  leader  and  led  ; 
And,  wherever  they  carry  their  plots  and  their  wiles, 
Every  face  in  the  village  is  dimpled  with  smiles. 

Neither  checked  by  the  rich  nor  the  needy  they  roan'. ; 
The  gray-headed  sire  has  a  daughter  at  home, 
Who  will  gladly  repair  all  the  damage  that's  done  ; 
And  three,  were  it  asked,  would  be  rendered  for  one. 

Old  man  !  whom  so  oft  I  with  pity  have  eyed, 
I  love  thee,  and  love  the  sweet  boy  at  thy  side  : 
Long  yet  mayst  thou  live  !  for  a  teacher  we  see 
That  lifts  up  the  veil  of  our  nature  in  thee. 


ANIMAL  TRANQUILLITY  AND  DECAY. 

A  SKETCH. 

The  little  hedgerow  birds, 
That  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
He  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step, 
His  gait,  is  one  expression  ;  every  limb, 
His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak 
A  man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 
With  thought. — He  is  insensibly  subdued 
To  settled  quiet  :  he  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten  ;  one  to  whom 
Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given, 
That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  thing  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.     He  is  by  nature  led 
To  peace  so  perfect,  that  the  young  behold 
With  envy,  what  the  old  man  hardly  feels. 


%ttagfo  nvfo  (Bk$mt  f  0ems» 


EPITAPHS. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  CHIABRERA. 

Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  state 
Drew  Titus  from  the  depth  of  studious  bowers, 
And  doomed  him  to  contend  in  faithless  courts, 
Where  gold  determines  between  right  and  wrong. 
Yet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart, 
And  his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 
To  wait  upon  the  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 
Whom  he  had  early  loved.     And  not  in  vain 
Such  course  he  held  !     Bologna's  learned  schools 
Were  gladdened  by  the  sage's  voice,  and  hung 
With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 
There  pleasure  crowned  his  days ;  and  all  his  thoughts 
A  roseate  fragrance  breathed.* — O  human  life, 
That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  "change  ! 
Behold  a  high  injunction  suddenly 
To  Arno's  side  conducts  him,  and  he  charmed 
A  Tuscan  audience  :  but  full  soon  was  called 
To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 
Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood 
A  champion  steadfast  and  invincible, 
To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  war  ! 


O  Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind 
Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste  ! 
'Twill  be  no  fruitless  moment.     I  was  born 
Within  Savona's  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 
On  Tiber's  banks  my  youth  was  dedicate 
To  sacred  studies  ;  and  the  Roman  shepherd 
Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino's  numerous  flock. 
Much  did  I  watch,  much  laboured,  nor  had  power 
To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities  ; 
Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  world, 
But  did  not  fall ;  for  virtue  braves  all  shocks, 
Upon  herself  resting  immoveably. 
Me  did  a  kindlier  fortune  then  invite 
To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  King  of  France, 


*  "  Ivi  vivea  giocondo  e  i  suoi  pensieri 
Erano  tutti  rose." 
The  translator  had  not  skill  to  come  nearer  to  his  original. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS.  305 


And  in  his  hands  I  saw  a  high  reward 
Stretched  out  for  my  acceptance— but  death  came. 
Now,  reader,  learn  from  this  my  fate — how  false, 
How  treacheious  to  her  promise  is  the  world, 
And  trust  in  God — to  whose  eternal  doom 
Must  bend  the  sceptred  potentates  of  earth. 


There  never  breathed  a  man  who  when  his  life 

Was  closing  might  not  of  that  life  relate 

Toils  long  and  hard. — The  warrior  will  report 

Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  field, 

And  blast  of  trumpets.     He  who  hath  been  doomed 

To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings, 

Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate, 

Envy  and  heart-inquietude,  derived 

From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 

I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth, 

Could  represent  the  countenance  horrible 

Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 

Of  Auster  and  Bootes.     Forty  years 

Over  the  well-steered  galleys  did  I  rule  : — 

From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  pillars 

Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown  ; 

And  the  broad  gulfs  I  traversed  oft— and — oft  : 

Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  stir 

I  knew  the  force  ;  and  hence  the  rough  sea's  pride 

Availed  not  to  my  vessel's  overthrow. 

What  noble  pomp  and  frequent  have  not  I 

On  regal  decks  beheld  !  yet  in  the  end 

I  learn  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 

To  equalize  the  lofty  and  the  low. 

We  sail  the  sea  of  life — a  calm  one  finds, 

And  one  a  tempat — and,  the  voyage  o'er, 

Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 

If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 

Savona  was  my  birthplace,  and  I  sprang 

Of  noble  parents  :  sixty  years  and  three 

Lived  I then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 


Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy 
Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I  took 
In  Malta  the  white  symbol  of  the  cross. 
Nor  in  life's  vigorous  season  did  I  shun 
Hazard  or  toil ;  among  the  sands  was  seen 
Of  Libya,  and  not  seldom,  on  the  banks 
Of  wide  Hungarian  Danube,  'twas  my  lot 
To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 
So  lived  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate  ; 
This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a  wrong, 
That  stripped  of  arms  I  to  my  end  am  brought 
On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 
Yet  haply  Arno  shall  be  spared  all  cause 
To  blush  for  me.     Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 
In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind 
How  fleeting  and  how  frail  is  human  life. 


SOS  EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  he, 

On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 

The  father  sojourned  ill  a  distant  land), 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  this  tomb 

A  brother's  child,  most  tenderly  beloved  ! 

Francesco  was  the  name  the  youth  had  borne, 

Pozzobonnelli  his  illustrious  house  ; 

And,  when  beneath  this  stone  the  corse  was  laid 

The  eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 

Alas  !  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life 

Had  scarcely  flowered  :  and  at  this  early  time, 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a  hope 

That  greatly  cheered  his  country  :  to  his  kin 

He  promised  comfort  ;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 

His  friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained,* 

He  suffered  not  to  languish  or  decay. 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 

Into  a  passionate  lament  ? — O  Soul ! 

Short  while  a  pilgrim  in  our  nether  world, 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air  ;  \ 

And  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise, 

An  everlasting  spring  !  in  memory 

Of  that  delightful  fragrance  which  was  once, 

From  thy  mild  manners,  quietly  exhaled. 


Pause,  courteous  spirit !— Balbi  supplicates 

That  thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  for  him 

Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 

A  prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 

This  to  the  dead  by  sacred  right  belongs  ; 

All  else  is  nothing.— Did  occasion  suit 

To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 

Would  ill  suffice  :  for  Plato's  lore  sublime. 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagyrite, 

Enriched  and  beautified  his  studious  mind  : 

With  Archimedes  also  he  conversed 

As  with  a  chosen  friend,  nor  did  he  leave 

Those  laureat  wreaths  ungathered  which  the  nymphs 

Twine  on  the  top  of  Pindus. — Finally, 

Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting, 

His  ears  he  closed  to  listen  to  the  song 

Which  Sion':  kings  did  consecrate  of  old  ; 

And  fixed  his  Pindus  upon  Lebanon. 

A  blessed  man  !  who  of  protracted  days 

Made  not,  as  thousands  do,  a  vulgar  sleep  ; 

But  truly  did  he  live  his  life. — Urbino, 

Take  pride  in  him  !— O  passenger,  farewell ! 


*  In  justice  to  the  author,  I  subjoin  the  original- 

"  e  degli  amicl 
Nsn  lasciava  languire  i  bei  pensleri." 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS.  307 

LINES 

Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk,  one  evening,  after  a  ttormy  day,  the  author  having  just 
read  in  a  newspaper  that  the  dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected. 

Loud  is  the  vale  !  the  voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams  1 

Of  all  her  voices,  one  1 

Loud  is  the  vale  ;— this  inland  depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  sea  ; 
Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest, 
Importunate  and  heavy  load  !* 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 
Upon  this  lonely  road  ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear ; 
For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear. 

A  power  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  nature's  dark  abyss  ; 
But  when  the  mighty  pass  away 
What  is  it  more  than  this — 

That  man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth. 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ? 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be  ; 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn? 


LINES 


Written,  November  13,  1S14,  on  a  blank  leaf  in  a  copy  of  the  author's  poem,  "The  Excursion 
upon  hearing  of  the  death  of  the  late  vicar  of  Kendal. 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong, 
Did  I  deliver  this  unfinished  song  ; 
Yet  for  one  happy  issue  ; — and  I  look 
With  self-congratulation  on  the  book 
Which  pious,  learned  Murfitt  saw  and  read  ;— 
Upon  my  thoughts  his  saintly  spirit  fed  ; 
He  conned  the  new-born  lay  with  grateful  heart- 
Foreboding  not  how  soon  he  must  depart ; 
Unweeting  that  to  him  the  jqy  was  given 
Which  good  men  take  with  them  from  earth  to  heaven. 


•  "  Lmportuna  e  grave  salma."— Michael  Anohlo. 


308  EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

ELEGIAC   STANZAS, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  PEELE  CASTLE,   IN  A  STORM,   PAINTED  Bf 
SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee  : 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ; 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  image  still  was  there  ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  it  seemed  no  sleep  ; 
No  mood  which  season  takes  away  or  brings  : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  then,  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand, 
To  express  what  then  I  saw  ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream  ; 

1  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile  ! 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile  ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made  : 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part  ; 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no  more  ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  friend  !  who  would  have  been  the  friend. 

If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend  ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

Oh,  'tis  a  passionate  work  !— yet  wise  and  well ; 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 
That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  ! 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  rOEMS.  309 

And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time. 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell,  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  kind  ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne  ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here. — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

Sweet  flower  !  belike  one  day  to  have 
A  place  upon  thy  poet's  grave, 
I  welcome  thee  once  more  : 
But  he,  who  was  on  land,  at  sea, 
My  brother,  too,  in  loving  thee, 
Although  he  loved  more  silently, 
Sleeps  by  his  native  shore. 

Ah  !  hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day 

When  to  that  ship  he  bent  his  way, 

To  govern  and  to  guide  : 

His  wish  was  gained  :  a  little  time 

Would  bring  him  back  in  manhood's  prime. 

And  free  for  life,  these  hills  to  climb, 

With  all  his  wants  supplied. 

And  full  of  hope  day  followed  day 

While  that  stout  ship  at  anchor  lay 

Beside  the  shores  of  Wight ; 

The  May  had  then  made  all  things  green ; 

And  floating  there  in  pomp  serene, 

That  ship  was  goodly  to  be  seen, 

His  pride  and  his  delight ! 

Yet  then,  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 
The  tender  peace  of  rural  thought ; 
In  more  than  happy  mood 
To  your  abodes,  bright  daisy  flowers  ! 
He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours, 
And  loved  you  glittering  in  your  bowers, 
A  starry  multitude. 

But  hark  the  word  !— the  ship  is  gone  ;—* 
From  her  long  course  returns  : — anon 
Sets  sail : — in  season  due, 
Once  more  on  English  earth  they  stand  - 
But,  when  a  third  time  from  the  land 
They  parted,  sorrow  was  at  hand 
For  him  and  for  his  crew 


310  EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

Ill-fated  vessel  ! — ghastly  shock  ! 

At  length  delivered  from  the  rock, 

The  deep  she  hath  regained  ; 

And  through  the  stormy  night  they  steer, 

Labouring  for  life,  in  hope  and  fear, 

Towards  a  safer  shore — how  near, 

Yet  not  to  be  attained  1 

"Silence  !"  the  brave  commander  cried  ; 
To  that  calm  word  a  shriek  replied, 
It  was  the  last  death-shriek. 
— A  few  (my  soul  oft  sees  that  sight) 
Survive  upon  the  tall  mast's  height : 
But  one  dear  remnant  of  the  night — 
For  him  in  vain  I  seek. 

Six  weeks  beneath  the  moving  sea 

He  lay  in  slumber  quietly  ; 

Unforced  by  wind  or  wave 

To  quit  the  ship  for  which  he  died, 

(All  claims  of  duty  satisfied  ;) 

And  there  they  found  him  at  her  side  * 

And  bore  him  to  the  grave. 

Vain  service  !  yet  not  vainly  done 
For  this,  if  other  end  were  none, 
That  he,  who  had  been  cast 
Upon  a  way  of  life  unmeet 
For  such  a  gentle  soul  and  sweet, 
Should  find  an  undisturbed  retreat 
Near  what  he  loved  at  last ; 

That  neighbourhood  of  grove  and  field 

To  him  a  resting-place  should  yield. 

A  meek  man  and  a  brave ! 

The  birds  shall  sing  and  ocean  make 

A  mournful  murmur  for  his  sake ; 

And  thou,  sweet  flower,  shalt  sleep  and  wake 

Upon  his  senseless  grave.* 


"  Late,  late  yestreen,  I  saw  the  new  raoone 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  hir  arme." 

— Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  Percy's  Rehqxes. 

Once  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky) 

The  moon  re-entering  her  monthly  round, 

No  faculty  yet  given  me  to  espy 

The  dusky  shape  within  her  arms  imbound, 

That  thin  memento  of  effulgence  lost 

Which  some  have  named  her  predecessor's  ghost. 

*  See,  in  Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places,  the  one  beginning  "When,  to  the  attritions  of  the 
busy  world,"  page  i6j 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS.  311 

Young,  like  the  crescent  that  above  me  shone, 
Nought  I  perceived  within  it  dull  or  dim  ; 
All  that  appeared  was  suitable  to  one 
Whose  fancy  had  a  thousand  fields  to  skim  ; 
To  expectations  spreading  with  wild  growth, 
And  hope  that  kept  with  me  her  plighted  troth. 

I  saw  (ambition  quickening  at  the  view) 
A  silver  boat  launched  on  a  boundless  flood  ; 
A  pearly  crest,  like  Dian's  when  it  threw 
Its  brightest  splendour  round  a  leafy  wood  ; 
But  not  a  hint  from  under-ground,  no  sign 
Fit  for  the  glimmering  brow  of  Proserpine. 

Or  was  it  Dian's  self  that  seemed  to  move 
Before  me  ?  nothing  blemished  the  fair  sight ; 
On  her  I  looked  whom  jocund  fairies  love, 
Cynthia,  who  puts  the  little  stars  to  flight, 
And  by  that  thinning  magnifies  the  great 
For  exaltation  of  her  sovereign  state. 

And  when  I  learned  to  mark  the  spectral  shape, 
As  each  new  moon  obeyed  the  call  of  time, 
If  gloom  fell  on  me,  swift  was  my  escape. 
Such  happy  privilege  hath  life's  gay  prime, 
To  see  or  not  to  see,  as  best  may  please 
A  buoyant  spirit,  and  a  heart  at  ease. 

Now,  dazzling  stranger  !  when  thou  meet'st  my  glance, 
Thy  dark  associate  ever  I  discern  ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts  too  eager  to  advance 
While  I  salut    my  joys,  thoughts  sad  or  stern  , 
Shades  of  past  bliss,  or  phantoms  that  to  gain 
Their  fill  of  promised  lustre  wait  in  vain. 

So  changes  mortal  life  with  fleeting  years, 
A  mournful  change,  should  reason  fail  to  bring 
The  timely  insight  that  can  temper  fears, 
And  from  vicissitude  remove  its  sting  ; 
While  faith  aspires  to  seats  in  that  domain 
Where  joys  are  perfect,  neither  wax  nor  wane. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

1824. 

Oh,  for  a  dirge  !     But  why  complain? 

Ask  rather  a  triumphal  strain 

When  Fermor's  race  is  run  ; 

A  garland  of  immortal  boughs 

To  bind  around  the  Christian's  brows; 

Whose  glorious  work  is  done. 

We  pay  a  high  and  holy  debt  ; 
No  tears  of  passionate  regret 


312  EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS 

Shall  stain  this  votive  lay  ; 
Ill-worthy,  Beaumont !  were  the  grief 
That  flings  itself  on  wild  relief 
When  saints  have  passed  away. 

Sad  doom,  at  sorrow's  shrine  to  kneel, 

For  ever  covetous  to  feel 

And  impotent  to  bear  : 

Such  once  was  hers — to  think  and  think 

On  severed  love,  and  only  sink 

From  anguish  to  despair  ! 

But  nature  to  its  inmost  part 
Had  faith  refined,  and  to  her  heart 
A  peaceful  cradle  given  ; 
Calm  as  the  dew-drops,  free  to  r«st 
Within  a  breeze-fanned  rose's  breast 
Till  it  exhales  to  heaven. 

Was  ever  spirit  that  could  bend 
So  graciously  ? — that  could  descer 
Another's  need  to  suit, 
So  promptly  from  her  lofty  throne  ! — 
In  works  of  love,  in  these  alone, 
How  restless,  how  minute ' 

Pale  was  her  hue  ;  yet  mortal  cheek 
Ne'er  kindled  with  a  livelier  streak 
When  aught  had  suffered  wrong, — 
When  aught  that  breathes  had  felt  a  wound- 
Such  look  the  oppressor  might  confound, 
However  proud  and  strong. 

But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  bitterness  of  things  ; 
Her  quiet  is  secure  ; 
No  thorns  can  pierce  her  tender  feet, 
Whose  life  was,  like  the  violet  sweet, 
As  climbing  jasmine  pure  ; — 

As  snowdrop  on  an  infant's  grave, 

Or  lily  heaving  with  the  wave 

That  feeds  it  and  defends  ; 

As  vesper,  ere  the  star  hath  kissed 

The  mountain  top,  or  breathed  the  mis^ 

That  from  the  vale  ascends. 

Thou  takest  not  away,  O  death  ! 
Thou  strik'st — and  absence perisheth. 
Indifference  is  no  more  ; 
The  future  brightens  on  our  sight  ; 
For  on  the  past  hath  "alien  a  light 
That  tempts  us  to  adore. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS.  313 

INVOCATION  TO  THE  EARTH. 

February,  1816. 

Rest,  rest,  perturbed  earth  ! 
Oh,  rest,  thou  doleful  mother  of  mankind  !" 
A  spirit  sang  in  tones  more  plaintive  than  the  wind  : 
"  From  regions  where  no  evil  thing  has  birth 
I  come — thy  stains  to  wash  away, 
Thy  cherished  fetters  to  unbind, 
To  open  thy  sad  eyes  upon  a  milder  day. 
The  heavens  are  thronged  with  martyrs  that  have  risen 

From  out  thy  noisome  prison  ; 

The  penal  caverns  groan 
With  tens  of  thousands  rent  from  off  the  tree 
Of  hopeful  life, — by  battle's     hirlwind  blown 
Into  the  deserts  of  eternity. 

"  Unpitied  havoc  !  Victims  unlamented  ! 
But  not  on  high,  where  madness  is  resented, 
And  murder  cau  es  some  sad  tears  to  flow, 
Though,  from  the  widely-sweeping  blow, 
The  choirs  of  angels  sprea'.  triumphantly  augmented. 

' '  False  parent  of  mankind  ! 

Obdurate,  proud,  and  blind. 
I  sprinkle  thee  w'th  ioft  celestial  dews, 
Thy  lost  maternal  heart  to  rc-iniiise  ! 
Scattering  this  far-fetched  moisture  from  my  wings, 
Upon  the  act  a  blebsing  I  implore, 
Of  which  the  rivers  in  their  secret  springs, 
The  rivers  stained  so  oft  with  human  gore, 
Are  conscious  ; — may  the  like  return  no  more  ! 
May  Discord — for  a  seraph's  care 
Shall  be  attended  with  a  bolder  prayer — 
May  she,  who  once  disturbed  the  seats  of  bliss 

These  mortal  spheres  above, 
Be  chained  for  ever  to  the  black  abyss  ! 
And  thou,  O  rescued  earth,  by  peace  and  love, 
And  merciful  desires,  thy  sanctity  approve  !  " 

The  spirit  ended  his  mysterious  rite, 
And  the  pure  vision  closed  in  darkness  infinite. 


ODE. 

XTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY   FROM   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

See  page  20. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 


314  EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  , — 
Turn  vvheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief  : 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong  : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep, 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong  ; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
shepherd  boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 

While  the  earth  itself  is  adorning. 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  children  are  pulling, 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warrrr, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm  : — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  ! 

But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak..of  something  that  is  gone  : 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat  : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


EPITAHIS  AND  ELEQIAO  POEMS.  31? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar  : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six-years'  darling  cf  a  pigmy  size  ! 

Sec  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 

retted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  hie, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art  ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song  : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
c  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part  ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 


316  EPITAPHS  ANP>  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  prophet  !  seer  blest  ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provok; 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 


O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  dot-h  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breabl  ; 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never  ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immorta  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


EPITAPH*  AXD  ELEGIAC  POEMS.  317 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ; 

We  .will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be, 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering, 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 

Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might  : 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret. 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


m  8 


OBSERVATIONS 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION  OF  SEVERAL  OF  THE  FORE- 
GOING  POEMS,  PUBLISHED  UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF  "LYRICAL 
BALLADS." 

Several  of  these  poems  have  already  been  submitted  to  general  perusal.  They  were 
published,  as  an  experiment,  which,  I  hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascertain,  how 
far,  by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state 
of  vivid  sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity  of  pleasure  may  be  imparted, 
which  a  poet  may  rationally  endeavour  to  impart. 

I  had  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the  probable  effect  of  those  poems  :  *i 
flattered  myself  that  they  who  should  be  pleased  with  them  would  read  them  with  more 
than  common  pleasure  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  well  aware,  that  by  those  who 
should  dislike  them,  they  would  be  read  with  more  than  common  dislike.  The  result 
has  differed  from  my  expectation  in  this  only,  that  I  have  pleased  a  greater  number  than 

I  ventured  to  hope  I  should  please. 

************ 

Several  of  my  friends  are  anrious  for  the  success  of  these  poems  from  a  belief,  that,  if 
the  views  with  which  they  were  composed  were  indeed  realised,  a  class  of  poetry  would 
be  produced  well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  not  unimportant  in 
the  multiplicity,  and  in  the  quality  of  its  moral  relations  :  and  on  this  account  they  have 
advised  me  to  add  a  systematic  defence  of  the  theory  upon  which  the  poen'is  were  written. 
But  I  was  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task,  because  I  knew  that  on  this  occasion  the 
reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments,  since  I  might  be  suspected  of  having 
been  principally  influenced  by  the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of  rcasp?iing  him  into  an 
approbation  of  these  particular  poems  :  and  I  was  still  more  unwilling  to  undertake  the 
task,  because,  adequately  to  display  my  opinions,  and  fully  to  enfor.ee  ^my  arguments, 
would  require  a  space  wholly  disproportionate  to  the  extent  of  the  work.  For  to  treat 
the  subject  with  the  clearness  and  coherence  of  which  I  bcWeve  it  susceptible,  it  would 
be  necessary  to  give  a  full  account  of  the  present  state  of  the  public  taste  in  this  country, 
and  to  determine  how  far  this  taste  is  healthy  or  depraved  ;  which,  again,  could  not  be 
deteri  (lined,  without  pointing  out,  in  what  manner  language  and  the  human  mind  act 
and  react  on  each  other,  and  without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of  literature  alone, 
but  likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have  therefore  altogether  declined  toenter  regularly  upon 
this  defence  ;  yet  I  am  sensible,  (hat  there  would  be  some  impropriety  in  abruptly 
obtruding  upon  the  public,  without  a  few  words  of  introduction,  poems  so  materially  dif- 
ferent from  those  upon  which  general  approbation  is  at  present  bestowed. 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse  an  author  makes  a  formal  engage- 
ment  that  he  will  gratify  certain  known  habits  of  association  ;  that  he  not  only  thus 
apprises  the  reader  that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and  expressions  will  be  found  in  his 
book,  but  that  others  will  be  carefully  excluded.  This  exponent  or  symbol  held  forth 
by  metrical  language  must  in  different  eras  of  literature  have  excited  very  different 
expectations  .  for  example,  in  the  age  of  Catullus,  Terence,  and  Lucretius,  and  that  of 
Shu  ins  or  Claudian  ;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the  age  of  Shakspeare  and  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne  and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I  will  not  take 
upon  me  to  determine  the  exact  import  of  the  promise  which  by  the  act  of  writing  in 
verse  an  author,  in  the  present  day,  makes  to  his  reader  ;  but  I  am  certain  it  will  appear 
to  many  persons  that  I  have  not  fulfilled  the  terms  of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily 
contracted.  They  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  gaudiness  and  inane  phraseology 
of  many  modern  writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading  this  book  to  its  conclusion,  will,  no 
doubt,  frequently  have  to  struggle  with  feelings  of  strangeness  and  awkwardness  :  they 
will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to  inquire  by  what   species  of  courtesy 


OBSERVATIONS.  319 

these  attempts  can  be  permitted  to  assume  that  title.  I  hope  therefore  the  reader  will 
not  censure  me,  if  I  attempt  to  state  what  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  perform  ;  and 
also  (as  far  as  the  limits  of  this  notice  will  permit)  to  explain  some  of  the  chief  reasoni 
which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice  of  my  purpose  :  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared 
any  unpleasant  feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that  I  myself  may  be  protected  from  tht 
most  dishonourable  accusation  which  can  be  brought  against  an  author,  namely,  that  Ot 
an  indolence  which  prevents  him  from  endeavouring  to  ascertain  what  is  his  duty,  or, 
when  his  duty  is  ascertained,  prevents  him  from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object,  then,  which  I  proposed  to  myself  in  these  poems  was  to  choose 
incidents  and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to  relate  or  describe  them,  throughout, 
as  far  as  was  possible,  in  a  selection  of  language  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  colouring  of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things 
should  be  presented  to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  way  ;  and,  further,  and  above  all,  to 
make  these  incidents  and  situations  interesting  by  tracing  in  them,  truly  though  not 
ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws  four  nature  :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in 
which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement.  Low  and  rustic  life  was  generally 
chosen,  because,  in  that  condition,  the  essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil 
in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a  plainer  and 
more  emphatic  language  ;  because  in  that  condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings 
co-exist  in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  consequently,  may  be  more  accurately 
contemplated,  and  more  forcibly  communicated  ;  because  the  manners  of  rural  life 
germinate  from  those  elementary  feelings;  and  from  the  necessary  character  of 
rural  occupations,  are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are  more  durable ;  and  lastly, 
because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful 
and  permanent  forms  of  nature.  The  language,  too,  of  these  men  is  adopted  (purified 
indeed  from  what  appears  to  be  its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes 
of  dislike  or  disgust)  because  such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the  best  objects 
from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived  ;  and  because,  from  their 
rank  in  society  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse,  being  less  under 
the  influence  of  social  vanity  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  unela- 
borated  expressions.  Accordingly,  such  a  language,  arising  out  of  repeated  experience 
and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent  and  a  far  more  philosophical  language 
than  that  which  is  frequently  substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  that  they  are  confer- 
ring honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  proportion  as  they  separate  themselves 
from  the  sympathies  of  men,  and  indu-ge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expres- 
sion, in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle  appetites,  of  their  own  creation.* 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present  outcry  against  the  triviality  and 
meanness,  both  of  thought  and  language,  which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have  occa- 
sionally introduced  into  their  metrical  compositions  ;  and  I  acknowledge  that  this 
defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more  dishonourable  to  the  writer's  own  character  than  false 
refinement  or  arbitrary  innovation,  Chough  I  should  contend  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is 
far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such  verses  the  poems  in  these 
volumes  will  be  found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference,  that  each  of 
them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not  that  I  mean  to  say,  I  always  began  to  write  with  a 
distinct  purpose  formally  conceived  ;  but  my  habits  of  meditation  have  so  formed  my 
feelings,  as  that  my  descriptions  of  such  objects  as  strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will  be 
found  to  carry  along  with  them  apurpose.  If  in  this  opinion  I  am  mistaken,  I  can  have 
little  right  to  the  name  of  a  poet.  For  all  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of 
powerful  feelings  :  and  though  this  be  true,  poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached 
were  never  produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man,  who,  being  possessed  of 
more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also  thought  long  and  deeply.  For  our  con- 
tinued influxes  of  feeling  are  modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are  indeed 
the  representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings  ;  and,  as  by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these 
general  representatives  to  each  other,  we  discover  what  is  really  important  to  men,  so, 


*  It  is  worth  while  hsre  to  observe,  that  the  affecting  parts  of  Chaucer  are  almost  alwaj" 
expressed  in  language  pure  and  universally  intelligible  even  to  this  da)'. 


320  OBSERVATIONS. 

by  the  repetition  and  continuance  of  this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected  with  impor- 
tant subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally  possessed  of  much  sensibility,  such  habits 
of  mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by  obeying  blindly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of 
those  habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in 
such  connection  with  each  other,  that  the  understanding  of  the  being  to  whom  we 
address  ourselves,  if  he  be  in  a  healthful  state  of  association,  must  necessarily  be  in  some 
degree  enlightened,  and  his  affections  ameliorated. 

I  have  said  that  each  of  these  poems  has  a  purpose.  I  have  also  informed  my  reader 
what  this  purpose  will  be  found  principally  to  be  :  namely,  to  illustrate  the  manner  in 
which  our  feelings  and  ideas  are  associa  ed  in  a  state  of  excitement.  But,  speaking  in 
language  somewhat  more  appropriate,  it  is  to  follow  the  fluxes  and  refluxes  of  the  mind 
when  agitated  by  the  great  and  simple  affections  of  our  nature.  This  object  I  have 
endeavoured  in  these  short  essays  to  attain  by  various  means  ;  by  tracing  the  maternal 
passion  through  many  of  its  more  subtle  windings,  as  in  the  poems  of  the  Idiot  Boy  and 
the  Mad  Mother ;  by  accompanying  the  last  struggles  of  a  human  being,  at  the 
approach  of  death,  cleaving  in  solitude  to  life  and  society,  as  in  the  poem  of  the  For- 
saken Indian  ;  by  showing,  as  in  the  stanzas  entitled  "  We  are  Seven,"  the  perplexity  and 
obscurity  which  in  childhood  a:tend  our  notion  of  death,  or  rather  our  utter  inability  to 
admit  that  notion  ;  or  by  displaying  the  strength  of  fraternal,  or,  to  speak  more  philo- 
sophically, of  moral  attachment  when  early  associated  with  the  great  and  beautiful 
objects  of  nature,  as  in  "The  Brothers  ;"  or,  as  in  the  incident  of  Simon  Lee,  by  placing 
my  reader  in  the  way  of  receiving  from  ordinary  moral  sensations  another  and  more 
salutary  impression  than  we  are  accustomed  to  receive  from  them.  It  has  also  been  part 
of  my  general  purpose  to  attempt  to  sketch  characters  under  tho  influence  of  less  im- 
passioned feelings,  as  in  the  Two  April  Mornings,  The  Fountain,  The  Old  Man 
Travelling,  The  Two  Thieves,  etc.,  characters  of  which  the  elements  are  simple,  belong- 
ing rather  to  nature  than  to  manners,  such  as  exist  now,  and  will  probably  always  exist, 
and  which  from  their  constitution  may  be  distinctly  and  profitably  contemplated.  I 
will  not  abuse  the  indulgence  of  my  reader  by  dwelling  longer  upon  this  subject ;  but  it 
is  proper  that  I  should  mention  one  other  circumstance  which  distinguishes  these  poems 
from  the  popular  poetry  of  the  day  ;  it  is  this,  that  the  feeling  therein  developed  gives 
importance  to  the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situation  to  the  feeling. 
My  meaning  will  be  rendered  perfectly  intelligible  by  referring  my  reader  to  the  poem* 
entitled  Poor  Susan  and  the  Childless  Father,  particularly  to  the  last  stanza  of  the  lattei 
poem. 

I  will  not  suffer  a  sense  of  false  modesty  to  prevent  me  from  asserting,  that  I  point  my 
reader's  attention  to  this  mark  of  distinction,  far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  particulai 
poems  than  from  the  general  importance  of  the  subject.  The  subject  is  indeed  important ! 
For  the  human  mind  is  capable  of  being  excited  without  the  application  of  gross  and 
violent  stimulants  ;  and  he  must  have  a  very  faint  perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity 
who  does  not  know  this,  and  who  does  not  further  know,  that  one  being  is  elevated 
above  another,  in  proportion  as  he  possesses  this  capability.  It  has  therefore  appeared 
to  me,  that  to  endeavour  to  produce  or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of  the  best  services 
in  which,  at  any  period,  a  writer  can  be  engaged  ;  but  this  service,  excellent  at  all  times, 
is  especially  so  at  the  present  day.  For  a  multitude  of  causes,  unknown  to  formei 
times,  are  now  acting  with  a  combined  force  to  blunt  the  discriminating  powers  of  the 
mind,  and  unfitting  it  for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of  almost  savage 
torpor.  The  most  effective  of  these  causes  are  the  great  national  events  which  are  daily 
taking  place,  and  the  increasing  accumulation  of  men  in  cities,  where  the  uniformity  oi 
their  occupation  produces  a  craving  for  extraordinary  incident,  which  the  rapid  commu- 
nication of  intelligence  hourly  gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  and  manners  the 
literature  and  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the  country  have  conformed  themselves.  The 
invaluable  works  of  our  elder  writers,  I  had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic  novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German  tragedies, 
and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant  storiesin  verse.— When  I  think  upon  this  degrading 
thirst  after  outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble 
effort  with  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  counteract  it ;  and,  reflecting  upon  the  magni- 
tude of  the  general  evil,  I  shall  be  oppressed  with  no  dishonourable  melancholy,   had 


OBSERVATIONS.  321 

I  not  a  deep  impression  of  certain  inherent  and  indestructible  qualities  of  the  human 
mind,  and  likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and  permanent  objects  that  act  upon  it, 
which  are  equally  inherent  and  indestructible  ;  and  did  I  not  further  add  to  this  impres- 
sion a  belief,  that  the  time  is  approaching  when  the  evil  will  be  systematically  opposed, 
by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with  far  more  distinguished  success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of  these  poems,  I  shall  request  the 
reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of  a  few  circumstances  relating  to  their  style,  in  order, 
among  other  reasons,  that  I  may  not  be  censured  for  not  having  performed  what  I  never 
attempted.  The  reader  will  find  that  personifications  of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in 
these  volumes  ;  and,  I  hope,  are  utterly  rejected,  as  an  ordinary  device  to  elevate  the 
style,  and  raise  it  above  prose.  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  intimate,  and,  as  far  as  is 
possible,  to  adopt  the  very  language  of  men  ;  and  assuredly  such  personifications  do 
not  make  any  natural  or  regular  part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a  figure  of 
speech  occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I  have  made  use  of  them  as  such  ;  but  I 
have  endeavoured  utterly  to  reject  them  as  a  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a  family 
language  which  writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I  have  wished  to 
keep  my  reader  in  the  company  of  flesh  and  blood,  persuaded  that  by  so  doing  I  shall 
interest  him.  I  am,  however,  well  aware  that  others  who  pursue  a  different  track  may 
interest  him  likewise  ;  I  do  not  interfere  with  their  claim,  I  only  wish  to  prefer  a  different 
claim  of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found  in  these  pieces  little  of  what  is  usually  called 
poetic  diction  ;  I  have  taken  as  much  pains  to  avoid  it  as  others  ordinarily  take  to  pro- 
duce it ;  this  I  have  done  for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to 
the  language  of  men,  and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which  1  have  proposed  to  myself 
to  impart,  is  of  a  kind  very  different  from  that  which  is  supposed  by  many  persons  to  be 
the  proper  object  of  poetry.  I  do  not  know  how,  without  being  culpably  particular,  I 
can  give  my  reader  a  more  exact  notion  of  the  style  in  which  I  wished  these  poems  to 
be  written,  than  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at  all  times  endeavoured  to  look  steadily 
at  my  subject,  consequently,  I  hope  that  there  is  in  these  poems  little  falsehood  of 
description,  and  that  my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  respective 
importance.  Something  I  must  have  gained  by  this  practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one 
property  of  all  good  poetry,  namely,  good  sense  ;  but  it  has  necessarily  cut  me  off  from 
a  large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of  speech  which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been 
regarded  as  the  common  inheritance  of  poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  expedient  to 
restrict  myself  still  further,  having  abstained  from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  them- 
selves proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been  foolishly  repeated  by  bad  poets,  till 
such  feelings  of  disgust  are  connected  with  them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of 
association  to  overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of  lines,  or  even  a  single  line,  in  which 
the  language,  though  naturally  arranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws  of  metre, 
does  not  differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  critics,  who,  when  they 
stumble  upon  these  prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine  that  they  have  made  a  notable 
discovery,  and  exult  over  the  poet  as  over  a  man  ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now,  these 
men  would  establish  a  canon  of  criticism  which  the  reader  will  conclude  he  must  utterly 
reject,  if  he  wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  pieces.  And  it  would  be  a  most  easy  task 
to  prove  to  him,  that  not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every  good  poem,  even 
of  the  most  elevated  character,  must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the  metre,  in 
no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  be  strictly  the  language  of  prose,  when  prose  is 
well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated  by  innumerable 
passages  from  almost  all  the  poetical  writings,  even  of  Milton  himself.  I  have  not 
space  for  much  quotation  ;  but,  to  illustrate  the  subject  in  a  general  manner,  I  will  here 
adduce  a  short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at  the  head  of  those  who,  by  their 
reasonings,  have  attempted  to  widen  the  space  of  separation  betwixt  prose  and  metrical 
composition,  and  was  more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elaborate  in  the  structure  of 
his  own  poetic  diction  : — 

"  In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Phocbu*  lifts  his  golden  fire  : 


S22  OBSERVATIONS. 

The  birds,  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine  ; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine ; 
And  in  my  breast  tlie  imperfect  joys  expire : 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men  ; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  bird-,  complain, 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
And  weep  the  7nore  because  I  iveep  in  vain." 

1 1  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this  sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is 
;   lines  printed  in  italics  :  it  is  equally  obvious,  that,   except  in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the 
use  of  the  single  word  "  fruitless  "  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far  a  defect,  the  language 
of  these  lines  does  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  I  have  shown  that  the  language  of  prose  may  yet  be  well 
adapted  to  poetry  ;  and  1  have  previously  asserted,  that  a  large  portion  of  the  language 
of  every  good  poem  can  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  prose.  I  will  go  further. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  it  may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any 
essential  difference  between  the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  composition.  We  are 
fond  of  tracing  the  resemblance  between  poetry  and  painting,  and,  accordingly,  we  call 
them  sisters  :  but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  connexion  sufficiently  strict  to  typify  the 
affinity  betwixt  metrical  and  prose  composition?  They  both  speak  by  and  to  the  same 
organs  ;  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them  are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  same 
substance,  their  affections  are  kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  differing 
even  in  degree  ;  poetry*  sheds  no  tears  "  such  as  angels  weep,"  but  natural  and  human 
tears  ;  she  can  boast  of  no  celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices  from  those 
of  prose  ;  the  same  human  blood  circulates  through  the  veins  of  them  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  arrangement  of  themselves  constitute  a 
distinction  which  overturns  what  I  have  been  saying  on  the  strict  affinity  of  metrical 
language  with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other  artificial  distinctions  which  the 
mind  voluntarily  admits,  I  answer  that  the  language  of  such  poetry  as  I  am  recommend- 
ing is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection  of  the  language  really  spoken  by  men  ;  thai 
this  selection,  wherever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and  feeling,  will  of  itself  form  a 
distinction  far  greater  than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely  separate  the 
composition  from  the  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  ordinary  life  ;  and,  if  metre  be  super- 
added thereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude  will  be  produced  altogether  sufficient  for 
the  gratification  of  a  rational  mind.  What  other  distinction  would  we  have  ?  Whence 
is  it  to  come  ?  And  where  is  it  to  exist  ?  Not  surely,  where  the  poet  speaks  through 
the  mouths  of  his  characters:  it  cannot  be  necessary  here,  either  for  elevation  of  style, 
or  any  of  its  supposed  ornaments  :  for  if  the  poet's  subject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will 
naturally,  and  upon  fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  passions  the  language  of  which,  if  selected 
truly  and  judiciously,  must  necessarily  be  dignified  and  variegated,  and  alive  with 
metaphors  and  figures.  I  forbear  to  speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would  shock  the 
intelligent  reader,  should  ihe  poet  interweave  any  foreign  splendour  of  his  own  with 
that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests  :  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is 
unnecessary.  And,  surely,  it  is  more  probable  that  those  passages,  which  with  propriety 
abound  with  metaphors  and  figures,  will  have  their  due  effect,  if,  upon  other  occasions 
where  the  passions  are  of  a  milder  character,  the  style  also  be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by  the  poems  I  now  present  to  the  reader 
must  depend  entirely  on  just  notions  upon  this  subject,  and,   as   it  is  in  itself  of  the 

*  I  here  use  the  word  "poetry"  (though  against  my  own  judgment)  as  opposed  to  the  word  prose, 
and  synonymous  with  metrical  composition.  But  much  confusion  has  been  introduced  into  criti- 
cism by  this  contradistinction  of  poetry  and  prose,  instead  of  the  more  philosophical  one  of  poetry 
and  matter  of  fact,  or  science.  The  only  strict  antithesis  to  prose  is  metre  :  nor  is  this,  in  truth,  a 
strict  antithesis  :  because  lines  and  passages  of  metre  so  naturally  occur  in  writing  prose,  that  it 
would  be  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  them,  eveav^re  itdesirable. 


OBSERVATIONS  323 

highest  importance  to  our  taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot  content  myself  with  these 
detached  remarks.  And  if,  in  what  I  am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear  to  some  that  my 
labour  is  unnecessary,  and  that  1  am  like  a  man  fighting  a  battle  without  enemies,  I 
would  remind  such  persons,  that,  whatever  may  be  the  language  outwardly  holden  by 
men,  a  practical  faith  in  the  opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to  establish  is  almost  unknown. 
If  my  conclusions  are  admitted,  and  carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if  admitted  at 
all,  our  judgments  concerning  the  works  of  the  greatest  poets  both  ancient  and  modern 
will  be  far  different  from  what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we  praise,  and  when  we 
censure  :  and  our  moral  feelings  influencing  and  influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I 
believe,  be  corrected  and  purified. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general  grounds,  I  ask  what  is  meant  by  the  word 
poet?  What  is  a  poet  ?  To  whom  does  he  address  himself?  And  what  language  is  to 
be  expected  from  him  ?  He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men  :  a  man,  it  is  true,  endued  witb 
more  lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness,  who  has  a  greater  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive  soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common 
among  mankind  ;  a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and  volitions,  and  who  rejoices 
more  than  other  men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him  ;  delighting  to  c  ntemplate 
similar  volitions  and  passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  the  universe,  and 
habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where  he  does  not  find  them.  To  these  qualities  be 
has  added,  a  disposition  to  be  affected  more  than  other  men  by  absent  things  as  if  they 
were  present ;  and  ability  (  f  conjuring  up  in  himself  passions,  which  are  indeed  far 
from  being  the  same  as  thos  '  produced  by  real  events,  yet  (especially  in  those  parts  of 
the  general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and  delightful)  do  more  nearly  resemble  the 
passions  produced  by  real  events,  than  anything  which,  from  the  motions  of  their  own 
minds  merely,  other  men  are  accustomed  to  feel  in  themselves  ;  whence,  and  from 
practice,  he  has  acquired  a  greater  readiness  and  power  in  expressing  what  he  thinks 
and  feels,  and  especially  those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  own  choice,  or  from 
the  structure  of  his  own  mind,  arise  in  him  without  immediate  external  excitement. 

But,  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may  suppose  even  the  greatest  poet  to 
possess,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that  the  language  which  it  wi1'  suggest  to  him,  must, 
in  liveliness  and  truth,  fall  far  short  of  that  which  is  uttered  by  men  in  real  life,  under 
the  actual  pressure  of  those  passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the  poet  thus  produces, 
or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to  cherish  of  the  character  of  a  poet,  it  is 
obvious,  that,  while  he  describes  and  imitates  passions,  his  situation  is  altogether  slavish 
and  mechanical,  compared  with  the  freedom  and  power  of  real  and  substantial  action 
and  suffering.  So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to  those 
of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps  to  let 
himself  slip  into  an  entire  delusion,  and  even  confound  and  identify  his  own  feelings 
with  theirs  ;  modifying  only  the  language  which  is  thus  suggested  to  him  by  a  considera- 
tion that  he  describes  for  a  particular  purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.  Here  then,  he 
will  apply  the  principle  on  which  I  have  so  much  insisted,  namely,  that  of  selection  ;  on 
this  he  will  depend  for  removing  what  would  otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in  the 
passion  ;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity  to  trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature  :  and  the 
more  industriously  he  applies  this  principle,  the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no  words, 
which  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be  to  be  compared  with  those  which 
are  the  emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object  to  the  general  spirit  of  these  remarks, 
that,  as  it  is  impossible  for  the  poet  to  produce  upon  all  occasions  language  as  exqui- 
sitely fitted  for  the  passion  as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that, 
lie  should  consider  himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a  translator,  who  deems  himself  justified 
vhen  he  substitutes  excellences  of  another  kind  for  those  which  are  unattainable  bj 
nim  ;  and  endeavours  occasionally  to  surpass  his  original,  in  order  to  make  some 
amends  for  the  general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that  he  must  submit.  But  this  would 
be  to  encourage  idleness  and  unmanly  despair.  Further,  it  is  the  language  of  men  who 
speak  of  what  they  do  not  understand  ;  who  talk  of  poetry  as  of  a  matter  of  amusement 
and  idle  pleasure  ;  who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely  about  a  taste  for  poetry,  as  thej 
express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as  indifferent  as  a  taste  for  rope-dancing,  or  Frontinac, 


824  OBSERVATIONS. 

or  sherry.  Aristotle,  I  have^oeen  told,  hath  said,  that  poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of 
all  writing :  it  is  so  :  its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local,  but  general,  and 
operative  ;  not  standing  upon  external  testimony,  but  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by 
passion  ;  truth  which  is  its  own  testimony,  which  gives  strength  and  divinity  to  the 
tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and  receives  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the 
image  of  man  and  nature.  The  obstacles  which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidelity  of  the 
biographer  and  historian,  and  of  their  consequent  utility,  ar«  incalculably  greater  than, 
those  which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the  poet  who  has  an  adequate  notion  of  the  dignity 
of  his  art.  The  poet  writes  under  one  restriction  only,  namely,  that  of  the  necessity  of 
giving  immediate  pleasure  to  a  human  being  possessed  of  that  information  which  may 
be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a 
natural  philosopher,  but  as  a  man.  Except  this  one  restriction,  there  is  no  object 
standing  between  the  poet  and  the  image  of  things  ;  between  this,  and  the  biographer 
and  historian  there  are  a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate  pleasure  be  considered  as  a  degra- 
dation of  the  poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an  acknowledgment,  of  the  beauty 
of  the  universe,  an  acknowledgment  the  en  ore  sincere,  because  it  is  not  formal,  but 
indirect  ;  it  is  a  task  light  and  er.sy  to  him  who  koks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit  of  love  : 
further,  it  is  an  homage  paid  to  the  native  and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to  the  grand 
elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by  which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves. 
We  have  no  sympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure  :  I  would  not  be  misunder- 
stood :  but  wherever  we  sympathise  with  pain,  it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  pro- 
duced and  carried  on  by  subtle  combinations  with  pleasure.  We  have  no  knowledge, 
that  is,  no  general  principles  drawn  from  the  contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but 
what  has  been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  pleasure  alone.  The  man  of 
science,  the  chemist  and  mathematician,  whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts  they  may 
have  had  to  struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  However  painful  may  be  the  objects 
•vith  which  the  anatomist's  knowledge  is  connected,  he  feels  that  his  knowledge  is  plea- 
sure ;  and  where  he  has  no  pleasure  he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does  the  poet  ? 
He  considers  man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him  as  acting  and  re-acting  upon  each 
other,  so  as  to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and  pleasure  ;  he  considers  man  in 
his  own  nature  and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this  with  a  certain  quantity  of 
immediate  knowledge,  with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  deductions,  which  by 
habit  become  of  the  nature  of  intuitions  ;  he  considers  him  as  looking  upon  this 
complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and  finding  everywhere  objects  that  immediately 
excite  in  him  sympathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of  his  nature,  are  accompanied  by 
an  overbalance  of  enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about  with  them,  and  to  these  sympathies  in 
which,  without  any  other  discipline  than  that  of  our  daily  life,  we  are  fitted  to 
take  delight,  the  poet  principally  directs  his  attention.  He  considers  man  and  nature 
as  essentially  adapted  to  each  other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mirror  of  the 
fairest  and  most  interesting  qualities  of  nature.  And  thus  the  poet,  prompted  by  this 
feeling  of  pleasure  which  accompanies  him  through  the  whole  course  of  his  studies, 
converses  with  general  nature  with  affections  akin  to  those,  which,  through  labour  and 
length  of  time,  the  man  of  science  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing  with  those 
particular  parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects  of  his  studies.  The  knowledge  both  of 
thr  poet  and  the  man  of  science  is  pleasure  ;  but  the  knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to 
us  as  a  necessary  part  of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  inalienable  inheritance  ;  the 
other  is  a  personal  and  individual  acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  '>y  no  habitual 
and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with  our  fellow-beings.  The  man  of  science  seeks 
truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor  ;  he  cherishes  and  loves  it  in  his  solitude; 
the  poet,  singing  a  song  in  which  all  human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the 
presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly  companion.  Poetry  is  the  breath  and 
finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge  ;  it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  countenance 
of  all  science.  Emphatically  may  it  be  said  of  the  poet,  as  Shakspeare  hath  said  of 
man,  "  that  he  looks  before  and  after."  He  is  the  rock  of  defence  of  human  nature  ; 
an  upholder  and  preserver,  carrying  everywhere  with  him  relationship  and  love.  In 
«qite  of  difference  of  soil  and  climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of  laws  and  customs, 


OBSERVATIONS.  325 

In  spite  of  tilings  silently  gone  out  of  mind,  and  things  violently  destroyed,  the  poet 
binds  together  by  passion  and  knowledge  the  vast  empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is 
spread  over  the  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  objects  of  the  poet's  thoughts  are 
everywhere  ;  though  the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his  favourite  guides,  yet 
he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his 
nings.  Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowledge — it  is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of 
man.  If  the  labours  of  men  of  science  should  ever  create  any  material  revolution, 
direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition,  and  in  the  impressions  which  we  habitually  receive, 
the  poet  will  sleep  then  no  mor?  than  at  present,  but  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps 
of  tlie  man  of  science,  not  only  in  those  general  indirect  effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side; 
carrying  sensation  into  the  midst  of  the  objects  of  the  science  itself.  The  remotest  dis- 
coveries of  the  chemist,  the  botanist,  or  mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of 
the  poet's  art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when 
these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations  under  which  they  are  contemplated 
by  the  followers  of  these  respe'ive  sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material  to 
us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  beings.  If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what  is  now 
called  science,  thus  familiarised  to  men,  shall  b  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form  of 
flesh  and  blood,  the  poet  will  lend  his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will 
welcome  the  being  thus  produced,  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  the  household  of 
man. — It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that  any  one,  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of 
poetry  which  I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in  upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of 
his  pictures  by  transitory  and  accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavour  to  excite  admiration 
of  himself  by  arts,  the  necessity  of  which  must  manifestly  depend  upon  the  assumed 
meanness  of  his  subject. 

What  I  have  thus  far  said  applies  to  poetry  in  general  ;  but  especially  to  those  parts 
of  composition  where  the  poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters  ;  and  upon 
this  point  it  appears  to  have  such  weight,  that  I  will  conclude,  there  are  few  persons  of 
good  sense,  who  would  not  allow  that  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition  are  defective, 
in  proportion  as  they  deviate  from  the  real  language  of  nature,  and  are  coloured  by  a 
diction  of  the  poet's  own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  individual  poet  or  belonging 
simply  to  poets  in  general,  to  a  body  of  men  who,  from  the  circumstance  of  their  com- 
positions being  in  metre,  it  is  expected  will  employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition  that  we  look  for  this  distinction 
of  language  ;  but  still  it  may  be  proper  and  necessary  where  the  poet  speaks  to  us  in  his 
own  person  and  character.  To  this  I  answer  by  referring  my  reader  to  the  description 
which  I  have  before  given  of  a  poet.  Among  the  qualities  which  I  have  enumerated  as 
principally  conducing  to  form  a  poet,  is  implied  nothing  differing  in  kind  from  other 
men,  but  only  in  degree.  The  sum  of  what  I  have  there  said  is,  that  the  poet  is  chiefly 
distinguished  from  other  men  by  a  greater  promptness  to  think  and  feel  without  imme- 
diate external  excitement,  and  a  greater  power  in  expressing  such  thoughts  and  feelings 
as  are  produced  in  him  in  that  mariner.  But  these  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings 
are  the  general  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  men.  And  with  what  are  they 
connected?  Undoubtedly  with  our  moral  sentiments  and  animal  sensations,  and  with 
the  causes  which  excite  these  ;  with  the  operations  of  the  elements,  and  the  appearances 
of  the  visible  universe  :  with  storm  and  sunshine,  with  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons, 
with  cold  and  heat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with  injuries  and  resentments, 
gratitude  and  hope,  with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and  the  like,  are  the  sensations  and 
objects  which  the  poet  describes,  as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other  men,  and  the 
objects  which  interest  them.  The  poet  thinks  and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  the  passions  of 
men.  How,  then,  can  his  language  differ  in  any  material  degree  from  that  of  all  other 
men  who  feel  vividly  and  see  clearly  ?  It  might  be  prwed  that  it  is  impossible.  But  sup- 
posing that  this  were  not  the  case,  the  poet  might  then  be  allowed  to  use  a  peculiar  lan- 
guage when  expressing  his  feelings  for  his  own  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like  himself. 
But  poets  do  not  write  for  poets  alone,  but  for  men.  Unless  therefore  we  are  advocates 
for  that  admiration  which  depends  upon  ignorance,  and  that  pleasure  which  arises  from 
hearing  what  we  do  not  understand,  the  poet  must  descend  from  this  supposed  height, 
and,  in  order  to  excite  rational  sympathy,  he  must  express  himself  as  other  men  express 
themselves.     To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the  real  Ian- 


326  OBSERVATIONS. 

guage  of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  composing  accurately  in  the 
spirit  of  such  selection,  he  is  treading  upon  safe  ground,  and  we  know  what  we  are  to 
expect  from  him.  Our  feelings  are  the  same  with  respect  to  metre  ;  for,  as  it  may  be 
proper  to  remind  the  reader,  the  distinction  of  metre  is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not 
like  that  which  is  produced  by  what  is  usually  called  poetic  diction,*  arbitrary,  and  sub- 
ject to  infinite  caprices  upon  which  no  calculation  whatever  can  be  made.  In  the  one 
case,  the  reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  poet  respecting  what  imagery  or  diction 
he  may  choose  to  connect  with  the  passion,  whereas,  in  the  other,  the  metre  obeys  cer- 
tain laws,  to  which  the  poet  and  reader  both  willingly  submit  because  they  are  certain, 
and  because  no  interference  is  made  by  them  with  the  passion  but  such  as  the  concurring 
testimony  of  ages  has  shown  to  heighten  and  improve  the  pleasure  which  coexists 
with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question,  namely,  Why,  professing  these 
opinions,  have  I  written  in  verse?  To  this,  in  addition  to  such  answer  as  is  included  in 
what  I  have  already  said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place,  Because,  however  I  may  have 
restricted  myself,  there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly  constitutes  the  most 
valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  the  great  and  universal  passions 
of  men,  the  most  general  and  interesting  of  their  occupations,  and  the  entire  world  of 
nature,  from  which  I  am  at  liberty  to  supply  myself  with  endless  combinations  of  forms 
and  imagery.  Now,  supposing  for  a  moment  that  whatever  is  interesting  in  these 
objects  may  be  as  vividly  described  in  prose,  why  am  I  to  be  condemned,  if  to  such 
description  I  have  endeavoured  to  superadd  he  charm  which,  by  the  consent  of  all 
nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in  metrical  language  ?  To  this,  by  such  as  are  uncon- 
vinced by  what  I  have  already  said,  it  may  be  answered  that  a  very  small  part  of  the 
pleasure  given  by  poetry  depends  upon  the  metre,  and  that  it  is  injudicious  to  write  in 
metre,  unless  it  be  accompanied  wjth  the  other  artificial  distinctions  of  style  with  which 
metre  is  usually  accompanied,  and:  that,  by  such  deviation,  more  will  be  lost  from  the 
shock  which  will  thereby  be  given  to  the  reader's  associations  than  will  ibe  counter- 
balanced by  any  pleasure  which  he  can  derive  from  -the  general  power  of  numbers.  In 
answer  to  those  who  still  contend  for  the  necessity  of  accompanying  metre  with  certain 
appropriate  colours  of  style  in  order  to  the  accomplishment  of  its  appropriate  end,  and 
who  also,  in  my  opinion,  greatly  underrate  the  power  of  metre  in  itself,  it  might, 
perhaps,  as  far  as  relates  to  these  poems,  have  been  almost  sufficient  to  observe,  that 
poems  are  extant,  written  upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a  more  naked  and  simple 
style  than  I  have  aimed  at,  which  poems  have  continued  to  give  pleasure  from  genera- 
tion to  generation.  Now,  if  nakedness  and  simplicity  be  a  defect,  the  fact  here 
mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption  that  poems  somewhat  less  naked  and  simple  are 
capable  of  affording  pleasure  at  the  present  day  ;  and,  what  I  wished  chiefly  to 
attempt,  at  present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  under  the  impression 
of  this  belief. 

But  I  might  point  out  various  causes  why,  when  the  style  is  manly,  and  the  subject 
of  some  importance,  words  metrically  arranged  will  long  continue  to  impart  such  a 
pleasure  to  mankind  as  he  who  is  sensible  of  the  extent  of  that  pleasure  will  be 
desirous  to  impart.  The  end  oi;  poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in  co-existence  with  an 
overbalance  of  pleasure.  Now,  by  the  supposition,  excitement  is  an  unusual  and  irre- 
gular state  of  the  mind  ;  ideas  and  feelings  do  not,  in  that  state,  succeed  each  other  in 
accustomed  order.  But,  if  the  words  by  which  this  excitement  is  produced  are  in  them- 
selves powerful,  or  the  images  and  feelings  have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected 
with  them,  there  is  some  danger  that  the  excitement  may  be  carried  beyond  its  proper 
bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  something  regular,  something  to  which  the  mind  has 
been  accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a  less  excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great 
efficacy  in  tempering  and  restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertexture  of  ordinary 
feeling,  and  of  feeling  not  strictly  and  necessarily  connected  with  the  passion.  This  is 
unquestionably  true,  and  hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at  first  appear  paradoxical,  from 
the  tendency  of  metre  to  divest  language,  in  a  certain  degree,  of  its  reality,  and  thus  to 

*  See  Appendix,  page  331. 


OBSERVATIONS.  327 

throw  a  sort  of  half  consciousness  of  unsubstantial  existence  over  the  whole  coin- 
position,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  but  that  more  pathetic  situations  and  sentiments,  that 
is,  those  which  have  a  greater  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them,  may  be  endured 
in  metrical  composition,  especially  in  rhyme,  than  in  prose.  The  metre  of  the  old 
ballads  is  very  artless  ;  yet  they  contain  many  passages  which  would  illustrate  this 
opinion,  and,  I  hope,  if  the  poems  referred  to  be  attentively  pent3ed,  similar  instances 
will  be  found  in  them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  illustrated  by  appealing  to  the 
reader's  own  experience  of  the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes  to  the  rc-perusal  of  the 
distressful  parts  of  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  or  the  "Gamester."  While  Shakspeare's 
writings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never  acted  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the 
bounds  of  pleasure — an  effect  which,  in  a  much  greater  degree  than  might  at  first  be 
imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  small,  but  continual  and  regular  impulses  of  pleasurable 
6urprise  from  the  metrical  arrangement. — On  the  other  hand,  (what  it  must  be  allowed 
will  much  more  frequently  happen),  if  th.  poet's  words  should  be  incommensurate  with 
the  passion,  and  inadequate  to  raise  the  reader  to  a  height  of  desirable  excitement,  then, 
(unless  the  poet's  choice  of  his  metre  has  been  grossly  injudicious,)  in  the  feelings 
of  pleasure  which  the  reader  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  metre  in  general,  and 
in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or  melancholy,  which  he  has  been  accustomed  to  con- 
nect with  that  particular  movement  of  metre,  there  will  be  r-.und  something  which  will 
greatly  contribute  to  impart  passion  to  the  words,  and  to  effect  the  complex  end  which 
the  poet  proposes  to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systematic  defence  of  the  theory  upon  which  these  poems  are 
written,  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  develop  thf  various  causes  upon  which  the 
pleasure  received  from  metrical  language  depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these  causes  is 
to  be  reckoned  a  principle  which  must  be  well  known  to  those  who  have  made  any  of 
the  arts  the  object  of  accurate  reflection  ;  I  mean  the  pleasure  which  the  mind  derives 
from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dissimilitude.  This  principle  is  the  great  spring  of 
the  activity  of  our  minds,  and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  principle  the  direction  of 
the  sexual  appetite,  and  ail  the  passions  connected  with  it,  take  their  origin  ;  it  is  the 
life  of  our  ordinary  conversation  ;  and  upon  the  accuracy  with  which  similitude  in  dis- 
similitude, and  dissimilitude  in  similitude  are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and  our  moral 
feelings.  It  would  not  have  been  a  useless  employment  to  have  applied  this  principle 
to  the  consideration  of  metre,  and  to  have  shown  that  metre  is  hence  enabled  to  afford 
much  pleasure,  and  to  have  pointed  out  in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is  produced. 
But  my  limits  will  not  permit  me  to  enter  upon  this  subject,  and  I  must  content  myself 
with  a  general  summary. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings  :  it  takes  its 
origin  from  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity  :  the  emotion  is  contemplated  till,  by  a 
species  of  re-action,  the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion,  kindred  to 
that  which  was  before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually  produced,  and  does 
itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In  this  mood  successful  composition  generally  begins, 
and  in  a  mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried  on  ;  but  the  emotion  of  whatever  kind,  and  in 
whatever  degree,  from  various  causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleasures,  so  that  in 
describing  any  passions  whatsoever,  which  are  voluntarily  described,  the  mind  will, 
upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjoyment.  Now,  if  nature  be  thus  cautious  in  pre- 
serving in  a  state  of  enjoyment  a  being  thus  employed,  the  poet  ought  to  profit  by  the 
lesson  thus  held  forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to  take  care,  that,  whatever  passions 
he  communicates  to  his  reader,  those  passions,  if  his  reader's  mind  be  sound  and 
vigorous,  should  always  be  accompanied  with  an  over-balance  of  pleasure.  Now  the 
music  of  harmonious  metrical  language,  the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and  the  blind 
association  of  pleasure  which  has  been  previously  received  from  works  of  rhyme  of 
metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction,  an  indistinct  perception  perpetually  renewed 
of  language  closely  resembling  that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  of  metre, 
differing  from  it  so  widely — all  these  imperceptibly  make  up  a  complex  feeling  of  delight, 
which  is  of  the  most  important  use  in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  which  will  always 
be  found  intermingled  with  powerful  descriptions  of  the  deeper  passions.  This  effect  is 
always  produced  in  pathetic  and  impassioned  poetry;  while,  in  light  r  compositions, 
the  ease  and  gracefulness  with  which  the  poet  manages  his  numbers  are  themselves 

2  A 


328  OBSERVATIONS. 

confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the  gratification  of  the  reader.  I  might,  perhaps, 
include  all  which  it  is  necessary  to  say  upon  this  subject,  by  affirming  what  few  persons 
will  deny,  that,  of  two  descriptions  either  of  passions,  manners,  or  characters,  each  of 
them  equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose  and  the  other  in  verse,  the  verse  will  be 
read  a  hundred  times  where  the  prose  is  read  once.  We  see  that  Pope,  by  the  power 
of  verse  alone,  has  contrived  to  render  the  plainest  common  sense  interesting,  and  even 
frequently  to  invest  it  with  the  appearance  of  passion.  In  consequence  of  these  con- 
victions I  related  in  metre  the  tale  of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  which  is  one  of  the 
rudest  of  this  collection.  I  wished  to  draw  attention  to  the  truth,  that  the  power  of  the 
human  imagination  is  sufficient  to  produce  such  changes  even  in  our  physical  nature  as 
might  almost  appear  miraculous.  The  truth  is  an  important  one  ;  the  fact  (for  it  is  a 
fact)  is  a  valuable  illustration  of  it :  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  has 
been  communicated  to  many  hundreds  of  people  who  would  never  have  heard  of  it, 
had  it  not  been  narrated  as  a  ballad,  and  in  a  more  impressive  metre  than  is  usual  in 
ballads. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  the  reasons  why  I  have  written  in  verse,  and  why  I 
have  chosen  subjects  from  common  life,  and  endeavoured  to  bring  my  language  near  to 
the  real  language  of  men,  if  I  have  been  too  minute  in  pleading  my  own  cause,  I  have 
at  the  same  time  been  treating  a  subject  of  general  interest ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason 
that  I  request  the  reader's  permission  to  add  a  few  words  with  reference  solely  to  these 
particular  poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will  probably  be  found  in  them.  I  am 
sensible  that  my  associations  must  have  sometimes  been  particular  instead  of  general, 
and  that,  consequently,  giving  to  things  a  false  importance,  sometimes  from  diseased 
impulses,  I  may  have  written  upon  unworthy  subjects  ;  but  I  am  less  apprehensive  on 
this  account,  than  that  my  language  may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary 
connexions  of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular  words  and  phrases,  from  which  no  man 
can  altogether  protect  himself.  Hence  I  have  no  doubt,  that,  in  some  instances,  feelings, 
even  of  the  ludicrous,  may  be  given  to  my  readers  by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me 
tender  and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  convinced  they  were  faulty  at 
present,  and  that  they  must  necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I  would  willingly  take  all 
reasonable  pains  to  correct.  But  it  is  dangerous  to  make  these  alterations  on  the  simple 
authority  of  a  few  individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men  ;  for  where  the  under- 
standing of  an  author  is  not  convinced,  or  his  feelings  altered,  this  cannot  be  done 
without  great  injury  to  himself :  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and  support ;  and,  if 
he  sets  them  aside  in  one  instance,  he  may  be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind 
loses  all  confidence  in  itself,  and  becomes  utterly  debilitated.  To  this  it  may  be  added, 
that  the  reader  ought  never  to  forget  that  he  is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the 
poet,  and,  perhaps,  in  a  much  greater  degree :  for  there  can  be  no  presumption  in 
saying,  that  it  is  not  probable  he  will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various  stages  of 
meaning  through  which  words  have  passed,  or  with  the  fickleness  or  stability  or  the 
relations  of  particular  ideas  to  each  other ;  and,  above  all,  since  he  is  so  much  less 
interested  in  the  subject,  he  may  decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  I  have  detained  my  reader,  I  hope  he  will  permit  me  to  caution  him  against 
a  mode  of  false  criticism  which  has  been  applied  to  poetry,  in  which  the  language 
closely  resembles  that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses  have  been  triumphed  over  in 
parodies  of  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  a  fair  specimen. 

"  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand." 

Immediately  under  these  lines  I  will  place  one  of  the  most  justly-admired  stanzas  of 
the  "  Babes  in  the  Wood." 

"These  pretty  babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down  ; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  man 
Approaching  from  the  town." 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order  of  thp  words,  in  no  resDect  differ 


OBSERVATIONS.  329 

from  the  most  unimpassioned  conversation.  There  are  words  in  both,  for  example, 
"  the  Strand,"  and  "the  town,"  connected  with  none  but  the  most  familiar  ideas  ;  yet 
the  one  stanza  we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a  fair  example  of  the  super- 
latively contemptible.  Whence  arises  this  difference?  Not  from  the  metre,  not  from 
the  language,  not  from  the  order  of  the  words  ;  but  the  matter  expressed  in  Dr. 
Johnson's  stanza  is  contemptible.  The  proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple 
rerses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would  be  a  fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  This  is  a 
bad  kind  of  poetry,  or,  This  ie  not  poetry ;  but  this  wants  sense  ;  it  is  neither  interesting 
in  itself,  nor  can  it  lead  to  anything  interesting  ;  the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane 
state  of  feeling  which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor  can  they  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the 
reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  dealing  with  such  verses.  Why  trouble 
yourself  about  the  species  till  you  have  previously  decided  upon  the  genus  ?  Why  take 
pains  to  prove  that  an  ape  is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that  he  is  not  a 
man  ? 

I  have  one  request  to  make  of  my  reader,  which  is,  that  in  judging  these  poems  he 
would  decide  by  his  own  feelings  genuinely,  and  not  by  reflection  upon  what  will 
probably  be  the  judgment  of  others.  How  common  is  it  to  hear  a  person  say,  "I 
myself  do  not  object  to  this  style  of  composition,  or  this  or  that  expression,  but,  to  such 
and  such  classes  of  people,  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous  ! "  This  mode  of  criticism, 
so  destructive  of  all  sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is  almost  universal :  I  have  therefore 
to  request,  that  the  reader  will  abide  independently,  by  his  own  feelings,  and  that, 
if  he  finds  himself  affected,  he  would  not  suffer  such  conjectures  to  interfere  with  his 
pleasure. 

If  an  author,  by  any  single  composition,  has  impressed  us  with  respect  for  his  talents, 
it  is  useful  to  consider  this  as  affording  a  presumption,  that  on  other  occasions  where 
we  have  been  displeased,  he,  nevertheless,  may  not  have  written  ill  or  absurdly  ;  and, 
further,  to  give  him  so  much  credit  for  this  one  composition  as  may  induce  us  to  review 
what  has  displeased  us,  with  more  care  than  we  should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon 
it.  This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  in  our  decisions  upon  poetry  especially,  may 
conduce,  in  a  high  degree,  to  the  improvement  of  our  own  taste  :  for  an  accurate  taste 
in  poetrv,  and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  observed,  is  an  acquired 
talent,  which  can  only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long-continued  intercourse  with 
the  best  models  of  composition.  This  is  mentioned,  not  with  so  ridiculous  a  purpose 
as  to  prevent  the  most  inexperienced  reader  from  judging  for  himself  (I  have  already 
said  that  I  wish  him  to  judge  for  himself),  but  merely  to  temper  the  rashness  of  de- 
cision, and  to  suggest,  that,  if  poetry  be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  has  not  been 
bestowed,  the  judgment  may  be  erroneous  ;  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it  necessarily  will 
be  so. 

I  know  that  nothing  would  have  so  effectually  contributed  to  further  the  end  which 
I  have  in  view,  as  to  have  shown  of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  that  pleasure  is 
produced,  which  is  confessedly  produced  by  metrical  composition  essentially  different 
from  that  which  I  have  here  endeavoured  to  recommend  :  for  the  reader  will  say  that 
he  has  been  pleased  by  such  composition  ;  and  what  can  I  do  more  for  him  ?  The 
power  of  any  art  is  limited  ;  and  he  will  suspect,  that,  if  I  propose  to  furnish  him  with 
new  friends,  it  is  only  upon  condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old  friends.  Besides,  as  I 
have  said,  the  reader  is  himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which  he  has  received  from 
such  composition,  composition  to  which  he  has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing  name 
of  poetry  ;  and  all  men  feel  an  habitual  gratitude,  and  something  of  an  honourable 
bigotry  for  the  objects  which  have  long  continued  to  please  them  ;  we  not  only  wish  to 
be  pleased,  but  to  be  pleased  in  that  particular  way  in  which  we  have  been  accustomed 
to  be  pleased.  There  is  a  host  of  arguments  in  these  feelings  ;  and  I  should  be  the  less 
able  to  combat  them  successfully,  as  I  am  willing  to  allow,  that,  in  order  entirely  to 
enjoy  the  poetry  which  I  am  recommending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give  up  much  of 
what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would  my  limits  have  permitted  me  to  point  out  how 
this  pleasure  is  produced,  I  might  have  removed  many  obstacles,  and  assisted  my  reader 
m  perceiving  that  the  powers  of  language  are  not  so  limited  as  he  may  suppose  ;  and 
that  it  is  possible  for  poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more  lasting,  and 
more  exquisite  nature.    This  part  of  my  subject  I  have  not  altogether  neglected  ;  but 


330 


OBSERVATIONS. 


it  has  been  less  my  present  aim  to  prove,  that  the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds 
of  poetry  is  less  vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler  powers  of  the  mind,  than  to  offer 
reasons  for  presuming,  that,  if  the  object  which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  were 
adequately  attained,  a  species  of  poetry  would  be  produced,  which  is  genuine  poetry  ; 
in  its  nature  well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  likewise  important  ir 
the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its  moral  relations. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a  perusal  of  the  poems,  the  reader  will  be  able 
clearly  to  perceive  the  object  which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  :  he  will  determine  how 
far  I  have  attained  this  object  ;  and,  what  is  a  much  more  important  question,  whether 
it  be  worth  attaining  :  and  upon  the  decision  of  these  two  questions  will  rest  my  claira 
to  the  approbation  of  the  pu^vi 


331 


APPENDIX. 

ON  POETIC  DICTION. 

As,  perhaps,  I  have  no  right  to  expect  from  a  reader  of  observations  on  a  volume  of 
poems  that  attentive  perusal  without  which  it  is  impossible,  imperfectly  as  I  have  been 
compelled  to  express  my  meaning,  that  what  is  there  said  should,  throughout,  be  fully 
understood,  I  am  the  more  anxious  to  give  an  exact  notion  of  the  sense  in  which  I  use 
the  phrase  poetic  diction;  and  for  this  purpose  I  will  here  add  a  few  words  concerning 
the  origin  of  the  phraseology  which  I  have  condemned  under  that  name. 

The  earliest  poets  of  all  nations  generally  wrote  from  passion  excited  by  real  events  ; 
they  wrote  naturally,  and  as  men  :  feeling  powerfully  as  they  did,  their  language  was 
daring,  and  figurative.  In  succeeding  times,  poets,  and  men  ambitious  of  the  fame  of 
poets,  perceiving  the  influence  of  such  language,  and  desirous  of  producing  the  same 
effect  without  having  the  same  animating  passion,  set  themselves  to  a  mechanical  adop- 
tion of  these  figures  of  speech,  and  made  use  of  them,  sometimes  with  propriety,  but  much 
more  frequently  applied  them  to  feelings  and  ideas  with  which  they  had  no  natural  con- 
nexion whatsoever.  A  language  was  thus  insensibly  produced,  differing  materially  from 
the  real  language  of  men  in  any  situation.  The  reader  or  hearer  of  this  distorted  lan- 
guage found  himself  in  a  perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind  ;  when  affected  by  the 
genuine  language  of  passion  he  had  been  in  a  perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind  also : 
in  both  cases  he  was  willing  that  his  common  judgment  and  understanding  should  be  laid 
asleep,  and  he  had  no  instinctive  and  infallible  perception  of  the  true  to  make  him  reject 
the  false  ;  the  one  served  as  a  passport  for  the  other.  The  agitation  and  confusion  of  mind 
were  in  both  cases  delightful,  and  no  wonder  if  he  confounded  the  one  with  the  other, 
and  believed  them  both  to  be  produced  by  the  same,  or  similar  causes.  Besides,  the 
poet  spake  to  him  in  the  character  of  a  man  to  be  looked  up  to,  a  man  of  genius  and 
authority.  Thus,  and  from  a  variety  of  other  causes,  this  distorted  language  was 
received  with  admiration  :  and  poets,  it  is  probable,  who  had  before  contented  them- 
selves for  the  most  part  with  misapplying  only  expressions  which  at  first  had  been 
dictated  by  real  passion,  carried  the  abuse  still  further,  and  introduced  phrases  composed 
apparently  in  the  spirit  of  the  original  figurative  language  of  passion,  yet  altogether  of 
their  own  invention,  and  distinguished  by  various  degrees  of  wanton  deviation  from 
good  sense  and  nature. 

It  is  indeed  true  that  the  language  of  the  earliest  poets  was  felt  to  differ  materially 
from  ordinary  language,  because  it  was  the  language  of  extraordinary  occasions  ;  but 
it  was  really  spoken  by  men — language  which  the  poet  himself  had  uttered  when  he  had 
been  affected  by  the  events  which  he  described,  or  which  he  had  heard  uttered  by  those 
around  him.  To  this  language  it  is  probable  that  metre  of  some  sort  or  other  was 
early  superadded.  This  separated  the  genuine  language  of  poetry  still  further  from 
common  life,  so  that  whoever  read  or  heard  poems  of  these  earliest  poets  felt  himself 
moved  in  a  way  in  which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  moved  in  real  life,  and  by 
causes  manifestly  different  from  those  which  acted  upon  him  in  real  life.  This  was  the 
great  temptation  to  all  the  corruptions  which  have  followed  :  under  the  protection  of 
this  feeling  succeeding  poets  constructed  a  phraseology  which  had  one  thing,  it  is  true, 
in  common  with  the  genuine  language  of  poetry,  namely,  that  it  was  not  heard  in 
ordinary  conversation  ;  that  it  was  unusual.  But  the  first  poets,  as  I  have  said,  spake 
a  language  which,  though  unusual,  was  still  the  language  of  men.  This  circumstance, 
however,  was  disregarded  by  their  successors  ;  they  found  that  they  could  please  by 
easier  means  :  th«y -became  proud  of  a  language  which  they  themselves  had  invented, 
and  which  was  uttered  only  by  themselves  ;  and,  with  the  spirit  of  a  fraternity,  they 
arrogated  it  to  themselves  as  their  own.  In  process  of  time  metre  became  a  symbol  or 
promise  of  this  unusual  language,  and  whoever  took  upon  him  to  write  in  metre, 


S32  APPENDIX. 

according  as  he  possessed  more  or  less  of  true  poetic  genius,  introduced  less  or  more  of 
this  adulterated  phraseology  into  his  compositions,  and  the  true  and  the  false  became 
so  inseparably  interwoven  that  the  taste  of  men  was  gradually  perverted  ;  and  this  lan- 
guage was  received  as  a  natural  language :  and  at  length,  by  the  influence  of  books 
upon  men,  did  to  a  certain  degree  really  become  so.  Abuses  of  this  kind  were  imported 
from  one  nation  to  another,  and  with  the  progress  of  refinement  this  diction  became 
daily  more  and  more  corrupt,  thrusting  out  of  sight  the  plain  humanities  of  nature  by 
a  motley  masquerade  of  tricks,  quaintness,  hieroglyphics,  and  enigmas. 

It  would  be  highly  interesting  to  point  out  the  causes  of  the  pleasure  given  by  this 
extravagant  and  absurd  language  :  but  this  is  not  the  place  ;  it  depends  upon  a  great 
variety  of  causes,  but  upon  none  perhaps  more  than  its  influence  in  impressing  a  notion 
of  the  peculiarity  and  exaltation  of  the  poet's  character,  and  in  flattering  the  reader's 
self-love  by  bringing  him  nearer  to  a  sympathy  with  that  character  ;  an  effect  which  is 
accomplished  by  unsettling  ordinary  habits  of  thinking,  and  thus  assisting  the  reader  to 
approach  to  that  perturbed  and  dizzy  state  of  mind  in  which  if  he  does  not  find  himself, 
he  imagines  that  he  is  balked  of  a  peculiar  enjoyment  which  poetry  can  and  ought  to 
bestow. 

The  sonnet  which  I  have  quoted  from  Gray,  in  the  preface,  except  the  lines  printed 
in  Italics,  consists  of  little  else  but  this  diction,  though  not  of  the  worst  kind  ;  and, 
indeed,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  it  is  far  too  common  in  the  best  writers,  both 
ancient  and  modern.  Perhaps  I  can  in  no  way,  by  positive  example,  more  easily  give 
my  reader  a  notion  of  what  I  mean  by  the  phrase  poetic  dictiofi,  than  by  referring  him 
to  a  comparison  between  the  metrical  paraphrase  which  we  have  of  passages  in  the  Old 
and  New  Testament,  and  those  passages  as  they  exist  in  our  common  translation.  See 
Pope's  "Messiah"  throughout ;  Prior's  "  Did  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue," 
etc.  etc.  "  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,"  etc.  etc.  See  ist 
Corinthians,  chapter  xiii.  By  way  of  immediate  example,  take  the  following  of  D*. 
Johnson : — 

"Turn  on  the  prudent  ant  thy  heedless  eyes, 

Observe  her  labours,  sluggard,  and  be  wise ; 

No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice, 

Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice  ; 

Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away 

To  snatch  the  blessings  of  a  plenteous  day  ; 

When  fruitful  summer  loads  the  teeming  plain, 

She  crops  the  harvest  and  she  stores  the  grain. 

How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 

Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers  ? 

While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  inclose, 

And  soft  solicitc'  in  courts  repose, 

Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 

Year  chases  year  with  unremitted  flight, 

Till  want  now  following,  fraudulent  and  slow, 

Shall  spring  to  seize  thee,  like  an  ambushed  foe." 

From  this  hubbub  of  words  pass  to  the  original.  "Go  to  the  ant,  thou skiggard, 
consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise  :  which  having  no  guide,  overseer,  or  ruler,  provideth 
her  meat  in  the  summer,  and  gathereth  her  food  in  the  harvest.  How  long  wilt  thou 
sleep,  O  sluggard  ?  Wilt  thou  arise  out  of  thy  sleep  ?  Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  little  slumber, 
a  little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep.  So  shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one  that  travaileth, 
and  thy  want  as  an  armed  man." — Proverbs  vi.  6—  n. 

One  more  quotation,  and  I  have  done.  It  is  from  Cowper's  verses,  supposed  to  be 
written  by  Alexander  Selkirk  : — 

"  Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ? 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 
Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 

"  But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Ne'er  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appeared. 


APPENDIX.  333 

''  Ye  winds,  that  hare  made  me  your  sport, 
Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 
Of  a  land  I  must  visit  no  more. 

"  My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 
A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
Oh,  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 
Though  a  friend  1  am  never  to  see." 

I  have  quoted  this  passage  as  an  instance  of  three  different  styles  of  composition. 
The  first  four  lines  are  poorly  expressed  ;  some  critics  would  call  the  language  prosaic  ; 
the  fact  is,  it  would  be  bad  prose,  so  bad,  that  it  is  scarcely  worse  in  metre.  The 
epithet  "  church-going"  applied  to  a  bell,  and  that  by  so  chaste  a  writer  as  Cowper,  is 
an  instance  of  the  strange  abuses  ohich  poets  have  introduced  into  their  language  till 
they  and  their  readers  take  them  as  matters  of  course,  if  they  do  not  single  them  out 
expressly  as  objects  of  admiration.  The  two  lines,  "  Ne'er  sighed  at  the  sound,"  etc., 
are,  in  my  opinion,  an  instance  of  the  language  of  passion  wrested  from  its  proper  use, 
and,  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  the  composition  being  in  metre,  applied  upon  an 
occasion  that  does  not  justify  such  violent  expressions  ;  and  I  should  condemn  the  pas. 
sage,  though  perhaps  few  readers  will  agree  with  me,  as  vicious  poetic  diction.  The  last 
stanza  is  throughout  admirably  expressed  :  it  would  be  equally  good  whether  in  prose  or 
verse,  except  that  the  reader  has  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  seeing  such  natural  language 
so  naturally  connected  with  metre.  The  beauty  of  this  stanza  tempts  me  to  conclude 
with  a  principle  which  ought  never  to  be  lost  sight  of, — namely,  that  in  works  of 
imagination  and  sentiment,  in  proportion  as  ideas  and  feelings  are  valuable,  whether  the 
composition  be  in  prose  or  in  verse,  they  require  and  exact  one  and  the  same  language. 
Metre  is  but  adventitious  to  composition,  and  the  phraseology  for  which  that  passport 
is  necessary,  even  where  it  is  graceful  at  all,  will  be  little  valued  by  the  judicious. 


334 


&jxe  (fcurston. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

WILLIAM,  EARL  OF  LONSDALE,  K.G.,  etc.  etc 

Oft,  through  thy  fair  domains,  illustrious  peer  ! 
In  youth  I  roamed,  on  youthful  pleasures  bent  ; 
And  mused  in  rocky  cell  or  sylvan  tent, 
Beside  swift-flowing  Lowther's  current  clear. 
Now,  by  thy  care  befriended,  I  appear 
Before  thee,  Lonsdale,  and  this  work  present, 
A  token  (may  it  prove  a  monument !) 
Of  high  respect  and  gratitude  sincere. 
Gladly  would  I  have  waited  till  my  task 
Had  reached  its  close  ;  but  life  is  insecure, 
And  hope  full  oft  fallacious  as  a  dream  : 
Therefore,  for  what  i6  here  produced  I  ask 
Thy  favour  ;  trusting  that  thou  wilt  not  deem 
The  offering,  though  imperfect,  premature. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland,  July  29,  1814. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1814. 

The  title  announces  that  this  is  only  a  portion  of  a  poem  ;  and  the  reader  must  be 
here  apprised  that  it  belongs  to  the  second  part  of  a  long  and  laborious  work,  which  is 
to  consist  of  three  parts. — The  author  will  candidly  acknowledge  that,  if  the  first  of 
these  had  been  completed,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  satisfy  his  own  mind,  he  should 
have  preferred  the  natural  order  of  publication,  and  have  given  that  to  the  world  first ; 
but,  as  the  second  division  of  the  work  was  designed  to  refer  more  to  passing  events, 
and  to  an  existing  state  of  things,  than  the  others  were  meant  to,  more  continuous 
exertion  was  naturally  bestowed  upon  it,  and  greater  progress  made  here  than  in  the 
rest  of  the  poem  ;  and  as  this  part  does  not  depend  upon  the  preceding,  to  a  degree 
which  will  materially  injure  its  own  peculiar  interest,  the  author,  complying  with 
the  earnest  entreaties  of  some  valued  friends,  presents  the  following  pages  to  the 
public. 

It  maybe  proper  to  state  whence  the  poem,  of  which  "The  Excursion"  is  a  part, 
derives  its  title  of  "The  Recluse." — Several  years  ago,  when  the  author  retired  to  his 
native  mountains,  with  the  hope  of  being  enabled  to  construct  a  literary  work  that 
might  live,  it  was  a  reasonable  thing  that  he  should  take  a  review  of  his  own  mind, 
and  examine  how  far  nature  and  education  had  qualified  him  for  such  employment. 
As  subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he  undertook  to  record,  in  verse,  the  origin  and 
progress  of  his  own  powers,  as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with  them.  That  work, 
addressed  to  a  dear  friend,  most  distinguished  for  his  knowledge  and  genius,  and 
to  whom  the  author's  intellect  is  deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished  ;   and  the 


THE  EXCURSION.  335 

result  01  the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it  was  a  determination  to  compose  a 
philosophical  poem,  containing  views  of  man,  nature,  and  society  :  and  to  be  entitled, 
"  The  Recluse  ;"  as  having  for  its  principal  subject  the  sensations  and  opinions  of  a 
poet  living  in  retirement.  The  preparatory  poem  is  biographical,  and  conducts  the 
history  of  the  author's  mind  to  the  point  when  he  was  emboldened  to  hope  that  his 
faculties  were  sufficiently  matured  for  entering  upon  the  arduous  labour  which  he 
had  proposed  to  himself ;  and  the  two  works  have  the  same  kind  of  relation  to  each 
other,  if  he  may  so  express  himself,  as  the  ante-chapel  has  to  the  body  of  a  Gothic 
church.  Continuing  this  allusion,  he  may  be  permitted  to  add,  that  his  minor  pieces, 
which  have  been  long  before  the  public,  being  now  properly  arranged,  will  be  found  by 
the  attentive  reader  to  have  such  connexion  with  the  main  work  as  may  give  them  claim 
to  be  likened  to  the  little  cells,  oratories,  and  sepulchral  recesses,  ordinarily  included 
in  those  edifices. 

The  author  would  not  have  deemed  himself  justified  in  saying,  upon  this  occasion, 
so  much  of  performances  either  unfinished,  or  unpublished,  if  he  had  not  thought  that 
the  labour  bestowed  by  him  upon  what  he  has  heretofore  and  now  laid  before  the  public, 
entitled  him  to  candid  attention  for  such  a  statement  as  he  thinks  necessary  to  throw 
light  upon  his  endeavours  to  please,  and  he  would  hope,  to  benefit  his  countrymen. — 
Nothing  further  need  be  added,  than  that  the  first  and  third  parts  of  ' '  The  Recluse"  will 
consist  chiefly  of  meditations  in  the  author's  own  person  ;  and  that  in  the  intermediate 
part  ("The  Excursion")  the  intervention  of  the  characters  speaking  is  employed,  and 
something  of  a  dramatic  form  is  adopted. 

It  is  not  the  author's  intention  formally  to  announce  a  system  :  it  was  more  animating 
'.o  him  to  proceed  in  a  different  course  ;  and  if  he  shall  succeed  in  conveying  to  the 
mind  clear  thoughts,  lively  images,  and  strong  feelings,  the  reader  will  have  no  difficulty 
in  extracting  the  system  for  himself.  And  in  the  meantime  the  following  passage  taken 
from  the  conclusion  of  the  first  book  of  "  The  Recluse,"  may  be  acceptable  as  a  kind 
of  prospectus  of  the  design  and  scope  of  the  whole  peem  : — 

"  On  man,  on  nature,  and  on  human  life 
Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 
Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 
Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed  ; 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances  whose  presence  soothes 
Or  elevates  the  mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 
To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  soul — an  impulse  to  herself, 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 
Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope— 
And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith  ; 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress  ; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  power; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread; 
Of  the  individual  mind  that  keeps  her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  conscience  only,  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all  ; 
I  sing — '  fit  audience  let  me  find  though  few  !' 

' '  So  prayed,  more  gaining  than  he  asked,  the  bard, 
Holiest  of  men. — Urania,  I  shall  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven  1 


336  TEE  EXCURSION. 

•For  I  must  tread  on  shadowy  ground,  must  sink 

Deep — and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  worlds 

To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veil. 

All  strength — all  terror,  single,  or  in  bands, 

That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal  form  ; 

Jehovah — with  his  thunder,  and  the  choir 

Of  shouting  angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones — 

I  pass  them  unalarmed.     Not  Chaos,  not 

The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 

Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy — scooped  out 

By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 

As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 

Into  our  minds,  into  the  mind  of  man, 

My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 

Beauty — a  living  presence  of  the  earth, 

Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  forms 

Which  craft  of  delicate  spirits  hath  composed 

From  earth's  materials— waits  upon  my  steps  ; 

Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 

An  hourly  neighbour,  Paradise,  and  groves 

Elysian,  fortunate  fields — like  those  of  old 

Sought  in  the  Atlantic  main,  why  should  they  be 

A  history  only  of  departed  things, 

Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was? 

For  the  discerning  intellect  of  man, 

When  wedded  to  his  goodly  universe 

In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 

A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 

Would  chant  in  lowly  peace,  the  spousal  verse 

Of  this  great  consummation  :  and  by  words 

Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 

Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 

Of  death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 

To  noble  raptures  ;  while  my  voice  proclaims 

How  exquisitely  the  individual  mind 

(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 

Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  world 

Is  fitted  : — and  how  exquisitely,  too, 

Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  men, 

The  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind  ; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with  blended  might 

Accomplish  ! — this  is  our  high  argument. 

Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I  oft 

Must  turn  elsewhere — to  travel  near  the  tribes 

And  fellowships  of  man,  and  see  ill  sights 

Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed  ; 

Must  hear  humanity  in  fields  and  groves 

Pipe  solitary  anguish  ;  or  must  hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 

Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 

Within  the  walls  of  cities  ;  may  these  sounds 

Have  their  authentic  comment, — that  even  these 

Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn ! 

Descend,  prophetic  spirit !  that  inspir'st 

The  human  soul  of  universal  earth, 

Dreajning  on  things  to  come  ;  and  dost  possess 


THE  EXCURSION.  337 

A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 

Of  mighty  poets  ;  upon  me  bestow 

A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my  song 

Willi  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine  ; 

Shedding  benignant  influence, — and  secure, 

Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 

Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 

Throughout  the  nether  sphere  ! — And  if  with  this 

I  mix  more  lowly  matter  ;  with  the  thing 

Contemplated,  describe  the  mind  of  man 

Contemplating,  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 

The  transitory  being  that  beheld 

This  vision, — when  and  where,  and  how  he  livad  ; 

Be  not  this  labour  useless.     If  such  theme 

May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then,  dread  Power  ! 

Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 

Of  all  illumination,  may  my  life 

Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 

More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners ; — nurse 

My  heart  in  genuine  freedom  : — all  pure  thoughts 

lie  with  me  ; — so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 

Guide,  and  support,  and  cheer  me  to  the  end !" 


BOOK  I. 


ARGUMENT. 


\  summer  forenoon — The  author  reaches  a  ruined  cottage  upon  a  common,  and  there  meets  with 
a  revered  friend,  the  Wanderer,  of  whom  he  gives  an  account — The  Wanderer,  while  resting 
under  the  shade  of  the  trees  that  surround  the  cottage,  relates  the  history  of  its  last  inhabitant. 

THE  WANDERER. 

TwAS  summer,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high  : 
Southward  the  landscape  indistinctly  glared 
Through  a  pale  steam  :  but  all  the  northern  downs, 
In  clearest  air  ascending,  showed  far  off 
A  surface  dappled  o'er  with  shadows  flung 
From  brooding  clouds  ;  shadows  that  lay  in  spots 
Determined  and  unmoved,  with  steady  beams 
Of  bright  and  pleasant  sunshine  interposed  ; 
Pleasant  to  him  who  on  the  soft  cool  moss 
Extends  his  careless  limbs  along  the  front 
Of  some  huge  cave,  whose  rocky  ceiling  casts 
A  twilight  of  its  own,  an  ample  shade, 
Where  the  wren  warbles  ;  while  the  dreaming  man, 
Half  conscious  of  the  soothing  melody, 
With  side-long  eye  looks  out  upon  the  scene, 
By  power  of  that  impending  covert  thrown, 
To  finer  distance.     Other  lot  was  mine  ; 
Yet  with  good  heart  that  soon  I  should  obtain 
As  grateful  resting-place,  and  livelier  joy. 
Across  a  bare  wide  common  I  was  toiling 
With  languid  steps  that  by  the  slippery  ground 
Were  baffled  ;  nor  could  my  weak  arm  disperse 
The  host  of  insects  gathering  round  my  face, 
And  ever  with  me  as  I  paced  along. 


338  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Upon  that  open  level  stood  a  grove, 
The  wished-for  port  to  which  my  course  was  bound. 
Thither  I  came,  and  there,  amid  the  gloom 
Spread  by  a  brotherhood  of  lofty  elms, 
Appeared  a  roofless  hut ;  four  naked  walls 
That  stared  upon  each  other  !  I  looked  round, 
And  to  my  wish  and  to  my  hope  espied 
Him  whom  I  sought  ;  a  man  of  reverend  age 
But  stout  and  hale,  for  travel  unimpaired. 
There  was  he  seen  upon  the  cottage  bench, 
Recumbent  in  the  shade,  as  if  asleep  ; 
An  iron-pointed  staff  lay  at  his  side. 

Him  had  I  marked  the  day  before — alone 
And  stationed  in  the  public  way,  with  face 
Turned  toward  the  sun  then  setting,  while  that  staff 
Afforded  to  the  figure  of  the  man 
Detained  for  contemplation  or  repose, 
Graceful  support  ;  his  countenance  meanwhile 
Was  hidden  from  my  view,  and  he  remained 
Unrecognised  ;  but,  stricken  by  the  sight, 
With  slackened  footsteps  I  advanced,  and  soon 
A  glad  congratulation  we  exchanged 
At  such  unthought-of  meeting.— For  the  night 
We  parted,  nothing  willingly  ;  and  now 
He  by  appointment  waited  for  me  here, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  these  clustering  elms. 

We  were  tried  friends  :  amid  a  pleasant  vale, 
In  the  antique  market  village  where  were  passed 
My  school-days,  an  apartment  he  had  owned, 
To  which  at  intervals  the  Wanderer  drew, 
And  found  a  kind  of  home  or  harbour  there. 
He  loved  me  ;  from  a  swarm  of  rosy  boys 
Singled  out  me,  as  he  in  sport  would  say, 
For  my  grave  looks— too  thoughtful  for  my  years. 
As  I  grew  up,  it  was  my  best  delight 
To  be  his  chosen  comrade.     Many  a  time, 
On  holidays,  we  rambled  through  the  woods  : 
We  sate — we  walked  ;  he  pleased  me  with  report 
Of  things  which  he  had  seen  ;  and  often  touched 
Abstrusest  matter,  reasonings  of  the  mind 
Turned  inward  ;  or  at  my  request  would  sing 
Old  songs — the  product  of  his  native  hills  ; 
A  skilful  distribution  of  sweet  sounds, 
Feeding  the  soul,  and  eagerly  imbibed 
As  cool  refreshing  water,  by  the  care 
Of  the  industrious  husbandman,  diffused 
Through  a  parched  meadow-ground,  in  time  of  drought. 
Still  deeper  welcome  found  his  pure  discourse  : 
How  precious  when  in  riper  days  I  learned 
To  weigh  with  care  his  words,  and  to  rejoice 
In  the  plain  presence  of  his  dignity  ! 

Oh  !  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 
By  nature  ;  men  endowed  with  highest  gifts, 
The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine, 
Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse, 


THE  EXCURSION.  339 

(W.jich,  in  the  docile  season  of  their  youth, 

It  was  denied  them  to  acquire,  through  lack 

Of  culture  and  the  inspiring  aid  of  books, 

Or  haply  by  a  temper  too  severe, 

Or  a  nice  backwardness  afraid  of  shame) ; 

Nor  having  e'er,  as  life  advanced,  been  led 

By  circumstance  to  take  unto  t'-.e  height 

The  measure  of  themselves,  these  favoured  beings, 

All  but  a  scattered  few,  live  out  Cheir  time: 

Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within, 

And  go  to  the  grave,  unthought  of.     Strongest  minds 

Are  often  those  of  Whom  the  noisy  world 

Hears  least ;  else  surely  this  man  had  not  left 

His  graces  unrevealed  and  unproclaimed. 

But,  as  the  mind  was  filled  with  inward  light 

So  not  without  distinction  had  he  lived, 

Beloved  and  honoured — far  as  he  was  known. 

And  some  small  portion  of  his  eloquent  speech, 

And  something  that  may  serve  to  set  in  view 

The  feeling-pleasures  of  his  loneliness, 

His  observations,  and  the  thoughts  his  mind 

Had  dealt  with — I  will  here  record  in  verse ; 

Which,  if  with  truth  it  correspond,  and  sink 

Or  rise,  as  venerable  nature  leads, 

The  high  and  tender  muses  shall  accept 

With  gracious  smile,  deliberately  pleased, 

And  listening  Time  reward  with  sacred  praise. 

Among  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born  : 
Where,  on  a  small  hereditary  farm, 
An  unproductive  slip  of  rugged  ground, 
His  parents,  with  their  numerous  offspring,  dwelt ; 
A  virtuous  household,  though  exceeding  poor  ! 
Pure  livers  were  they  .-'',  austere  and  grave, 
And  fearing  God  ;  the  very  children  taught 
Stern  self-respect,  a  reverence  for  God's  Word, 
And  an  habitual  piety,  maintained 
With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground. 

From  his  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom  I  speak, 
In  summer,  tended  cattle  on  the  hills  ; 
But,  through  the  inclement  a"d  the  perilous  days 
Of  long-continuing  winter,  ?,-  repaired, 
Equipped  with  satchel,  toav  .hool,  that  stood 
Sole  building  on  a  mountain's  dreary  edge, 
Remote  from  view  of  city  spire,  or  sound 
Of  minster  clock  !    From  that  bleak  tenement 
He,  many  an  evening,  to  his  distant  home 
In  solitude  returning,  saw  the  hills 
Grow  larger  in  the  darkness,  all  alone 
Beheld  the  stars  come  out  above  his  head, 
And  travelled  through  the  wood  with  no  one  near 
To  whom  he  might  confess  the  things  he  saw. 
So  the  foundations  of  his  mind  were  laid. 
In  such  communion,  not  from  terror  free, 
While  yet  a  child,  and  long  before  his  time, 
He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  greatness  ;  and  deep  feelings  had  impressed 


THE  EXCURSION. 

Great  objects  on  his  mind,  with  portraiture 

And  colour  so  distinct,  that  on  his  mind 

They  lay  like  substances,  and  almost  seemed 

To  haunt  the  bodily  sense.     He  had  received 

A  precious  gift  ;  for,  as  he  grew  in  years, 

With  these  impressions  would  he  still  compare 

All  his  remembrances,  thoughts,  shapes,  and  forms 

And,  being  still  unsatisfied  with  aught 

Of  dimmer  character,  he  thence  attained 

An  active  power  to  fasten  images 

Upon  his  brain  ;  and  on  their  pictured  lines 

Intensely  brooded,  even  till  they  acquired 

The  liveliness  of  dreams.     Nor  did  he  fail, 

While  yet  a  child,  with  a  child's  eagerness 

Incessantly  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 

On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brought 

To  feed  such  appetite  :  nor  this  alone 

Appeased  his  yearning  : — in  the  after  day 

Of  boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn, 

And  'mid  the  hollow  depths  of  naked  crags 

He  sate,  and  even  in  their  fixed  lineaments, 

Or  from  the  power  of  a  peculiar  eye, 

Or  by  creative  feeling  overborne, 

Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppressed, 

Even  in  their  fixed  and  steady  lineaments 

He  traced  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind, 

Expressions  ever  varying  ! 

Thus  informed, 
He  had  small  need  of  books  ;  for  many  a  tale 
Traditionary  round  the  mountains  hung, 
And  many  a  legend,  peopling  the  dark  woods, 
Nourished  imagination  in  her  growth, 
And  gave  the  mind  that  apprehensive  power 
By  which  she  is  made  quick  to  recognise 
The  moral  properties  and  scope  of  things. 
But  eagerly  he  read,  and  read  again, 
Whate'er  the  minister's  old  shelf  supplied  ; 
The  life  and  death  of  martyrs,  who  sustained, 
With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  displayed  in  records  left 
Of  persecution,  and  the  Covenant — times 
Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour  ! 
And  there,  by  lucky  hap,  had  been  preserved 
A  straggling  volume,  torn  and  incomplete, 
That  left  half  told  the  preternatural  tale, 
Romance  of  giants,  chronicle  of  fiends, 
Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncouth  ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-kneed,  sharp-elbowed,  and  lean-ankled  tcor 
With  long  and  ghostly  shanks— forms  which  once  seen 
Could  never  be  forgotten  ! 

In  his  heart, 
Where  fear  sate  thus,  a  cherished  visitant, 
Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 
By  sound  diffused,  or  by  the  breathing  air, 
Or  by  the  silent  looks  of  happy  things. 
Or  flowing  from  the  universal  face 
Of  earth  and  sky.     But  he  had  felt  the  power 


THE  EXCURSION.  :;il 

Of  nr.ture,  and  already  was  prepared) 
Ry  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 
Deeply  the  lesson  deep  of  love  which  he, 
Whom  nature,  by  whatever  means,  has  taught 
To  feel  intensely,  cannot  but  receive. 

Such  was  the  boy — but  for  the  growing  youth 
What  soul  was  his,  when,  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light !     He  looked— 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 
In  gladness  and  deep  joy.     The  clouds  were  touched, 
.And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 
Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle  :  sensation,  soul,  and  form 
All  melted  into  him  ;  they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being  ;  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live  ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not  ,  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request  ; 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  power 
That  made  him  ;  it  was  blessedness  and  love ! 

A  herdsman  on  the  lonely  mountain  tops, 
Such  intercourse  was  his,  and  in  this  sort 
Was  his  existence  oftentimes  possessed. 
Oh,  then  how  beautiful,  how  bright  appeared 
The  written  promise  !     Early  had  he  learned 
To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 
The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die  ; 
But  in  the  mountains  did  he/eel  his  faith. 
Responsive  to  the  writing,  all  things  there 
Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life, 
And  greatness  still  revolving  ;  infinite ; 
There  littleness  was  not  ;  the  least  of  things 
Seemed  infinite  ;  and  there  his  spirit  shaped 
Her  prospects,  now  did  he  believe, — he  saw. 
What  \  onder  if  his  being  thus  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  !     Low  desires, 
Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place  ;  yet  was  his  heart 
Lowly  ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude, 
Oft  as  he  called  these  ecstasies  to  mind 
And  whence  they  flowed  ;  and  from  them  he  acquired 
Wisdom,  which  works  through  patience  ;  thence  he  learne'.". 
In  oft-recurring  hours  of  sober  thought 
To  look  on  nature  with  a  humble  heart, 
Self-questioned  where  it  did  not  understand, 
And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love. 

So  passed  the  time  ;  yet  to  the  nearest  town 
He  duly  went  with  what  small  overplus 
His  earnings  might  supply,  and  brought  away 
And  book  that  most  had  tempted  his  desires 


342  THE  EXCURSION. 

While  at  the  stall  he  read.     Among  the  hills 

He  gazed  upon  that  mighty  orb  of  song, 

The  divine  Milton.     Lore  of  different  kind, 

The  annual  savings  of  a  toilsome  life, 

His  schoolmaster  supplied  ;  bool.3  that  explain 

The  purer  elements  of  truth  involved 

In  lines  and  numbers,  and,  by  charm  severe, 

(Especially  perceived  where  nature  droops 

And  feeling  is  suppressed)  preserve  the  mind 

Busy  in  solitude  and  poverty. 

These  occupations  oftentimes  deceived 

The  listless  hours,  while  in  the  hollow  vale, 

Hollow  and  green,  he  lay  on  the  green  turf 

In  pensive  idleness.     What  could  he  do, 

Thus  daily  thirsting,  in  that  lonesome  life, 

With  blind  endeavours  ?    Yet,  still  uppermost, 

Nature  was  at  his  heart  as  if  he  felt, 

Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  power 

In  all  things  that  from  her  sweet  influence 

Might  tend  to  wean  him.     Therefore  with  her  hues, 

Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 

He  clothed  the  nakedness  or  austere  truth. 

While  yet  he  lingered  in  the  rudiments 

Of  science,  end  among  her  simplest  laws, 

His  triangles — they  were  the  stars  of  heaven, 

The  silent  stars  1     Oft  did  he  take  delight 

To  measure  the  altitude  of  some  tall  crag 

That  is  the  eagle's  birthplace,  or  some  peak 

Familiar  with  forgotten  years,  that  shows 

Inscribed,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought, 

Upon  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides, 

The  history  of  many  a  winter  storm, 

Or  obscure  records  of  the  path  of  fire. 

And  thus,  before  his  eighteenth  year  was  told, 
Accumulated  feelings  pressed  his  heart 
With  still  increasing  weight;  be  was  o'erpowered 
By  nature,  by  the  turbulence  subdued 
Of  his  own  mind ;  by  mystery  and  hope, 
And  the  first  virgin  passion  of  a  soul 
Communing  with  the  glorious  universe. 
Full  often  wished  he  that  the  winds  might  rage 
When  they  were  silent ;  far  more  fondly  now 
Than  in  his  earlier  season  did  he  love 
Tempestuous  nights— the  conflict  and  the  sounds 
That  live  in  darkness  :— from  his  intellect 
And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought 
He  asked  repose  ;  and,  failing  oft  to  win 
The  peace  required,  he  scanned  the  laws  of  light 
Amid  the  roar  of  torrents,  where  they  send 
From  hollow  defts  up  to  the  clearer  air 
A  cloud  of  mist  that,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Varies  its  rainbow  hues.     But  vainly  thus, 
And  vainly  by  all  other  means,  he  strove 
To  mitigate  the  fever  of  his  heart. 

In  dreams,  in  study,  and  in  ardent  thought, 
Thus  was  he  reared  ;  mueh  wanting  to  assist 


THE  EXCURSION.  343 

The  growth  of  intellect,  yet  gaining  more, 

And  every  moral  feeling  of  his  soul 

Strengthened  and  braced,  by  breathing  in  content 

The  keen,  the  wholesome  air  of  poverty, 

And  drinking  from  the  well  of  homely  life. 

But,  from  past  liberty,  and  tried  restraints, 

He  now  was  summoned  to  select  the  course 

Of  humble  industry  that  promised  best 

To  yield  him  no  unworthy  maintenance. 

Urged  by  his  mother,  he  essayed  to  teach 

A  village  school — but  wandering  thoughts  were  then 

A  misery  to  him  ;  and  the  youth  resigned 

A  task  he  was  unable  to  perform. 

That  stern  yet  kindly  spirit,  who  constrains 
The  Savoyard  to  quit  his  native  rocks, 
The  free-born  Swiss  to  leave  his  narrow  vales, 
(Spirit  attached  to  regions  mountainous 
Like  their  own  steadfast  clouds)  did  now  impel 
His  restless  mind  to  look  abroad  with  hope. 
An  irksome  drudgery  seems  it  to  plod  on, 
Through  hot  and  dusty  ways,  or  pelting  storm, 
A  vagrant  merchant  bent  beneath  his  load  ! 
Yet  do  such  travellers  find  their  own  delight ; 
And  their  hard  service,  deemed  debasing  now, 
Gained  merited  respect  in  simpler  times  ; 
When  squire  and  priest,  and  they  who  round  them  dwali 
In  rustic  sequestration — all  dependent 
Upon  the  pedlar's  toil — supplied  their  wants. 
Or  pleased  their  fancies  with  the  wares  he  brought. 
Not  ignerant  was  the  youth  that  still  no  few 
Of  his  adventurous  countrymen  were  led 
By  perseverance  in  this  track  of  life 
To  competence  and  ease  ; — for  him  it  bore 
Attractions  manifold  ; — and  this  he  chose. 
His  parents  on  the  enterprise  bestowed 
Their  farewell  benediction,  but  with  hearts 
Foreboding  evil.     From  his  native  hills 
He  wandered  far  ;  much  did  he  see  of  men, 
Their  manners,  their  enjoyments,  and  pursuits. 
Their  passions,  and  their  feelings  ;  chiefly  those 
Essential  and  eternal  in  the  heart, 
That,  'mid  the  simpler  forms  of  rural  life, 
Exist  more  simple  in  their  elements, 
And  speak  a  plainer  language.     In  the  woods, 
A  lone  enthusiast,  and  among  the  fields, 
Itinerant  in  this  labour,  he  had  passed 
The  better  portion  of  his  time  ;  and  there 
Spontaneously  had  his  affections  thriven 
Amid  the  bounties  of  the  year,  the  peace, 
And  liberty  of  natur^  ;  there  he  kept 
In  solitude  and  solitary  thought 
His  mind  in  a  just  equipoise  of  love. 
Serene  it  was,  unclouded  by  the  cares 
Of  ordinary  life  ;  unvexed,  unwarped, 
By  partial  bondage.     In  his  steady  course, 
No  piteous  revolutions  had  he  felt, 
No  wild  varieties  of  joy  and  grief. 


344  THE  EXCURSION. 

Unoccupied  by  sorrow  of  its  own, 

His  heart  lay  open  ;  and  by  nature  tuned 

And  constant  disposition  of  his  thoughts 

To  sympathy  with  man,  he  was  alive 

To  all  that  was  c  joyed  where'er  he  went ; 

And  all  that  was  endured  ;  for  in  himself 

Happy,  and  quiet  in  his  cheerfulness, 

He  had  no  painful  pressure  from  without 

That  made  him  turn  aside  from  wretchedness 

With  coward  fears.     He  could  afford  to  suffer 

With  those  whom  he  saw  suffer.     Hence  it  came 

That  in  our  best  experience  he  was  rich, 

And  in  the  wisdom  of  our  daily  life. 

For  hence,  minutely,  in  his  various  rounds, 

He  had  observed  the  progress  and  decay 

Of  many  minds,  of  minds  and  bodies  too  ; 

The  history  of  many  families ; 

How  they  had  prospered  ;  how  they  were  o'erthrown 

By  passion  or  mischance  ;  or  such  misrule 

Among  the  unthinking  masters  of  the  earth 

As  makes  the  nations  groan. — This  active  course 

He  followed  till  provision  for  his  wants 

Had  been  obtained  ;-<=*the  Wanderer  then  resolved 

To  pass  the  remnant  of  his  days — untasked 

With  needless  services — from  hardship  free. 

His  calling  laid  aside,  he  lived  at  ease  : 

But  still  he  loved  to  pace  the  public  roads 

And  the  wild  paths  ;  and,  by  the  summer's  warmth 

Invited,  often  would  he  leave  his  home 

And  journey  far,  revisiting  the  scenes 

That  to  his  memory  were  most  endeared. 

Vigorous  in  health,  of  hopeful  spirits,  undamped 

By  worldly-mindedness,  or  anxious  care  ; 

Observant,  studious,  thoughtful,  and  refreshed 

By  knowledge  gathered  up  from  day  to  day  ; — 

Thus  had  he  lived  a  long  and  innocent  life. 

The  Scottish  Church,  both  on  himself  and  those 
With  whom  from  childhood  he  grew  up,  had  held 
The  strong  hand  of  her  purity  ;  and  still 
Had  watched  him  with  an  unrelenting  eye. 
This  he  remembered  in  his  riper  age 
With  gratitude,  and  reverential  thoughts. 
But  by  the  native  vigour  of  his  mind, 
By  his  habitual  wanderings  out  of  doors, 
By  loneliness,  and  goodness,  and  kind  works, 
Whate'er,  in  docile  childhood  or  in  youth, 
He  had  imbibed  of  fear  or  darker  thought, 
Was  melted  all  away  :  so  true  was  this, 
That  sometimes  his  religion  seemed  to  me 
Self-taught,  as  of  a  dreamer  in  the  woods  ; 
Who  to  the  model  of  his  own  pure  heart 
Shaped  his  belief  as  grace  divine  inspired, 
Or  human  reason  dictated  with  awe. 
And  surely  never  did  there  live  on  earth 
A  man  of  kindlier  nature.     The  rough  sports 
And  teasing  ways  of  children  vexed  not  him  ; 
Indulgent  listener  was  he  to  tho  tongue 


TEE  EXCURSION.  345 

Of  garrulous  age  ;  nor  did  the  sick  man's  tale, 
To  his  Internal  sympathy  addressed, 
Obtain  reluctant  hearing. 

Plain  his  garb ; 
Such  as  might  suit  a  rustic  sire,  prepared 
For  Sabbath  duties  ;  yet  he  was  a  man 
Whom  no  one  could  have  passed  without  remark. 
Active  and  nervous  was  his  gait ;  his  limbs 
And  his  whole  figure  breathed  intelligence. 
Time  had  compressed  the  freshness  of  his  cheek 
Into  a  narrower  circle  of  deep  red, 
But  had  not  tamed  his  eye  ;  that,  under  brows 
Shaggy  and  gray,  had  meanings  which  it  brought 
From  years  of  youth  ;  which,  like  a  being  made 
Of  many  beings,  he  had  wondrous  skill 
To  blend  with  knowledge  of  the  years  to  come, 
Human,  or  such  as  lie  beyond  the  grave. 


So  was  he  framed  ;  and  such  his  course  of  life 

Who  now,  with  no  appendage  but  a  staff, 

The  prized  memorial  of  relinquished  toils, 

Upon  that  cottage  bench  reposed  his  limbs, 

Screened  from  the  sun.     Supine  the  Wanderer  lay, 

His  eyes  as  if  in  drowsiness  half  shut, 

The  shadows  of  the  breezy  elms  above 

Dappling  his  face.     He  had  not  heard  the  sound 

Of  my  approaching  steps,  and  in  the  shade 

Unnoticed  did  I  stand,  some  minutes'  space. 

At  length  I  hailed  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 

Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 

Had  newly  scooped  a  running  stream.     He  rose, 

And  ere  our  lively  greeting  into  peace 

Had  settled,  "  Tis,"  said  I,  "a  burning  day  ; 

My  lips  are  parched  with  thirst,  but  you,  it  seems, 

Have  somewhere  found  relief."     He,  at  the  word, 

Pointing  towards  a  sweet-briar,  bade  me  climb 

The  fence  where  that  aspiring  shrub  looked  out 

Upon  the  public  way.     It  was  a  plot 

Of  garden-ground  run  wild,  its  matted  weeds 

Marked  with  the  steps  of  those,  whom,  as  they  passed. 

The  gooseberry  trees  that  shot  in  long  lank  slips, 

Or  currants,  hanging  from  their  leafless  stems 

In  scanty  strings,  had  tempted  to  o'erleap 

The  broken  wall.     I  looked  around,  and  there, 

Where  two  tall  hedgerows  of  thick  alder  boughs 

Joined  in  a  cold  damp  nook,  espied  a  well 

Shrouded  with  willow-flowers  and  plumy  fern. 

My  thirst  I  slaked,  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 

Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  returned 

Where  sate  the  old  man  on  the  cottage  bench  ; 

And  while,  beside  him,  with  uncovered  head, 

I  yet  was  standing,  freely  to  respire, 

And  cool  my  temples  in  the  fanning  air, 

Thus  did  he  speak—"  I  see  around  me  here 

Things  which  you  cannot  see  :  we  die,  my  friend, 

Nor  we  alone,  but  that  which  each  man  loved 


346  THE  EXCURSION. 

And  prized  in  his  peculiar  nook  of  earth 

Dies  with  him,  or  is  changed  ;  and  very  soon 

Even  of  the  good  is  no  memorial  left. 

The  poets,  in  their  elegies  and  songs 

Lamenting  the  departed,  call  the  groves, 

They  call  upon  the  hills  and  streams  to  mourn, 

And  senseless  rocks  ;  nor  idly  ;  for  they  speak, 

In  these  their  invocations,  with  a  voice 

Obedient  to  the  strong  creative  power 

Of  human  passion.     Sympathies  there  are 

More  tranquil,  yet  perhaps  of  kindred  birth, 

That  steal  upon  the  meditative  mind, 

And  grow  with  thought.     Beside  yon  spring  I  stood, 

And  eyed  its  waters  till  we  seemed  to  feel 

One  sadness,  they  and  I.     For  them  a  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  broken  :  time  has  been 

When,  every  day,  the  touch  of  human  hand 

Dislodged  the  natural  sleep  that  binds  them  up 

In  mortal  stillness  ;  and  they  ministered 

To  human  comfort.     Stooping  down  to  drink, 

Upon  the  slimy  foot-stone  I  espied 

The  useless  fragment  of  a  wooden  bowl, 

Green  with  the  moss  of  years,  and  subject  only 

To  the  soft  handling  of  the  elements  : 

There  let  the  relic  lie — fond  thought — vain  words  ! 

Forgive  them — never  did  my  steps  approach 

This  humble  door  but  she  who  dwelt  therein 

A  daughter's  welcome  gave  me,  and  I  loved  her 

As  my  own  child.     Oh,  sir  1  the  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 

Burn  to  the  socket.     Many  a  passenger 

Hath  blessed  poor  Margaret  for  her  gentle  looks, 

When  she  upheld  the  cool  refreshment  drawn 

From  that  forsaken  spring  ;  and  no  one  came 

But  he  was  welcome  ;  no  one  went  away 

But  that  it  seemed  she  loved  him.     She  is  dead, 

The  light  extinguished  of  her  lonely  hut, 

The  hut  itself  abandoned  to  decay, 

And  she  forgotten  in  the  quiet  grave  ! 

"  I  speak,"  continued  he,  "  of  one  whose  stock 
Of  virtues  bloomed  beneath  this  lowly  roof. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  steady  mind, 
Tender  and  deep  in  her  excess  of  love, 
Not  speaking  much,  pleased  rather  with  the  joy 
Of  her  own  thoughts  :  by  some  especial  care 
Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 
A  being — who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness. 
Her  wedded  partner  lacked  not  on  his  side 
The  humble  worth  that  satisfied  her  heart  : 
Frugal,  affectionate,  sober,  and  withal 
Keenly  industrious.     She  with  pride  would  tell 
That  he  was  often  seated  at  his  loom, 
In  summer,  ere  the  mower  was  abroad 
Among  the  dewy  grass, — in  early  spring, 
Ere  the  last  star  had  vanished. — They  who  passed 
At  evening,  from  behind  the  garden  fence 


THE  EXCURSION.  3*7 

Might  hear  his  busy  spade,  which  he  would  ply, 

After  his  daily  work,  until  the  light 

Had  failed,  and  every  leaf  and  flower  were  lost 

In  the  dark  hedges.     So  their  days  were  spent 

In  peace  and  comfort ;  and  a  pretty  boy 

Was  their  best  hope, — next  to  the  God  in  heaven. 

"  Not  twenty  years  ago,  but  you  I  think 
Can  scarcely  bear  it  now  in  mind,  there  came 
Two  blighting  seasons,  when  the  fields  were  left 
With  half  a  harvest.     It  pleased  Heaven  to  add 
A  worse  affliction  in  the  plague  of  war  ; 
This  happy  land  was  stricken  to  the  heart ! 
A  wanderer  then  among  the  cottages 
I,  with  my  freight  of  winter  raiment,  saw 
The  hardships  of  that  season  ;  many  rich 
Sank  down,  as  in  a  dream,  among  the  poor  ; 
And  of  the  poor  did  many  cease  to  be, 
And  their  place  knew  them  not.     Meanwhile,  abridged 
Of  daily  comforts,  gladly  reconciled 
To  numerous  self-denials,  Margaret 
Went  struggling  on  through  those  calamitous  years 
With  cheerful  hope,  until  the  second  autumn, 
When  her  life's  helpmate  on  a  sick-bed  lay, 
Smitten  with  perilous  fever.     In  disease 
He  lingered  long  ;  and  when  his  strength  returned. 
He  found  the  little  he  had  stored,  to  meet 
The  hour  of  accident  or  crippling  age, 
Was  all  consumed.     A  second  infant  now 
Was  added  to  the  troubles  of  a  time 
Laden,  for  them  and  all  of  their  degree, 
With  "are  and  sorrow  ;  shoals  of  artisans 
From  ill-requited  labour  turned  adrift 
Sought  daily  bread  from  public  charity, 
They,  and  their  wives  and  children — happier  far 
Could  they  have  lived  as  do  the  little  birds 
That  peck  along  the  hedgerows,  or  the  kite 
That  makes  her  dwelling  on  the  mountain  rocks  ! 

"  A  sad  reverse  it  was  for  him  who  long 
Had  filled  with  plenty,  and  possessed  in  peace, 
This  lonely  cottage.     At  his  door  he  stood, 
And  whistled  many  a  snatch  of  merry  tunes 
That  had  no  mirth  in  them  ;  or  with  his  knife 
Carved  uncouth  figures  on  the  heads  of  sticks — 
Then,  not  less  idly,  sought,  through  every  nook 
In  house  or  garden,  any  casual  work 
Of  use  or  ornament ;  and  with  a  strange, 
Amusing,  yet  uneasy  novelty, 
He  blended,  where  he  might,  the  various  tasks 
Of  summer,  autumn,  winter,  and  of  spring. 
But  this  endured  not  ;  his  good  humour  soon 
Became  a  weight  in  which  no  pleasure  was  ; 
And  poverty  brought  on  a  petted  mood 
And  a  sore  temper  :  day  by  day  he  drooped, 
And  he  would  leave  his  work— and  to  the  town, 
Without  an  errand,  would  direct  his  steps, 
Or  wander  here  and  there  among'  the  fields. 


348  THE  EXCURSION. 

One  while  fie  would  speak  lightly  of  his  babes, 
And  with  a  cruel  tongue :  at  other  times 
He  tossed  them  with  a  false  unnatural  joy 
And  'twas  a  rueful  thing  to  see  the  looks 
Of  the  poor  innocent  children.     '  Every  smile,' 
Said  Margaret  to  me,  here  beneath  these  trees, 
'  Made  my  heart  bleed.'  " 

At  this  the  Wanderer  paused 
And,  looking  up  to  those  enormous  elms, 
He  said,  "  'Tis  now  the  hour  of  deepest  noon. 
At  this  still  season  of  repose  and  peace, 
This  hour,  when  all  things  which  are  not  at  rest 
Are  cheerful ;  while  this  multitude  of  flies 
Is  ruling  all  the  air  with  melody  ; 
Why  should  a  tear  be  in  an  old  man's  eye  ? 
Why,  should  we  thus,  with  an  untoward  mind, 
And  in  the  weakness  of  humanity, 
From  natural  wisdom  turn  our  hearts  away, 
To  natural  comfort  shut  our  eyes  and  ears, 
And,  feeding  on  disquiet,  thus  disturb 
The  calm  of  nature  with  our  restless  thoughts  ?  " 


He  spake  with  somewhat  of  a  solemn  tone  : 

But,  when  he  ended,  there  was  in  his  face 

Such  easy  cheerfulness,  a  look  so  mild, 

That  for  a  little  time  it  stole  away 

All  recollection,  and  that  simple  tale 

Passed  from  my  mind  like  a  forgotten  sound. 

A  while  on  trivial  things  w    held  discourse. 

To  me  soon  tasteless.     In  my  own  despite, 

I  thought  of  thr..  poor  woman  as  of  one 

Whoim  I  had  known  and  loved.     He  had  rehearsed 

Her  homely  tale  with  such  familiar  power, 

With  such  an  active  countenance,  an  eye 

So  bi  sy,  that  the  things  of  which  he  spake 

Seemed  present ;  and,  attention  now  relaxed, 

A  heajt-felt  chillness  crept  along  my  veins. 

I  rose. ;  and,  having  left  the  breezy  shade, 

Stood  drinking  comfort  from  the  warmer  sun, 

That  had  not  cheered  me  long — ere,  looking  round 

Upon  that  tranquil  ruin,  I  returned, 

And  begged  of  the  old  man  that,  for  my  sake, 

He  would  resume  his  story. 

He  replied, 
"  It  were  a  wantonness,  and  would  demand 
Severe  reproof,  if  we  were  men  whose  hearts 
Could  hold  vain  dalliance  with  the  misery 
Even  of  the  dead  ;  contented  thence  to  draw 
A  momentary  pleasure,  never  marked 
By  reason,  barren  of  all  future  good. 
But  we  have  known  that  there  is  often  found 
In  mournful  thoughts,  and  always  might  be  found, 
A  power  to  virtue  friendly  ;  were't  not  so, 
I  am  a  dreamer  among  men,  indeed 
\n  idle  dreamer  !    'Tis  a  common  tale, 
\n  ordinary  sorrow  of  man's  life, 


THE  EXCURSION.  349 

A  tale  of  silent  suffering,  hardly  clothed 

In  bodily  form.— But,  without  further  bidding, 

I  will  proceed. 

While  thus  it  fared  with  them, 
To  whom  this  cottage,  till  those  hapless  years, 
Had  been  a  blessed  home,  it  was  my  chance 
Tu  travel  in  a  country  far  remote ; 
And  when  these  lofty  elms  once  more  appeared, 
What  pleasant  expectations  lured  me  on 
O'er  the  fiat  common  !— With  quick  step  I  reached 
The  threshold,  lifted  with  light  hand  the  latch  ; 
Hut,  when  1  entered,  Margaret  looked  at  me 
A  little  while  ;  then  turned  her  head  away 
Speechless, — and  sitting  down  upon  a  chair 
Wept  bitterly.     I  wist  not  what  to  do, 
Or  how  to  speak  to  her.     Poor  wretch  !  at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then, — O  sir  1 
I  cannot  tell  how  she  pronounced  my  name. — 
With  fervent  love,  and  with  a  face  of  grief 
Unutterably  helpless,  and  a  look 
That  seemed  to  cling  upon  me,  she  inquired 
If  I  had  seen  her  husband.     As  she  spake 
A  strange  surprise  and  fear  came  to  my  heart, 
Nor  had  I  power  to  answer  ere  she  told 
That  he  had  disappeared — not  two  months  gone. 
He  left  his  house  :  two  wretched  days  had  passed, 
And  on  the  third,  as  wistfully  she  raised 
Her  head  from  off  her  pillow,  to  look  forth, 
Like  one  in  trouble,  for  returning  light, 
Within  her  chamber-casement  she  espied 
A  folded  paper,  lying  as  if  placed 
To  meet  her  waking  eyes.     This  tremblingly 
She  opened— found  no  writing,  but  beheld 
Pieces  of  money  carefully  inclosed, 
Silver  and  gold.—'  I  shuddered  at  the  sight,' 
Said  Margaret,  '  for  I  knew  it  was  his  hand 
Which  placed  it  there  :  and  ere  that  day  was  ended. 
That  long  and  anxious  day  1  I  learned  from  one 
Sent  hither  by  my  husband  to  impart 
The  heavy  news, — that  he  had  joined  a  troop 
Of  soldiers  going  to  a  distant  land. 
He  left  me  thus— he  could  not  gather  heart 
To  take  a  farewell  of  me  ;  for  he  feared 
That  I  should  follow  with  my  babes,  and  sink 
Beneath  the  misery  of  that  wandering  life. ' 

"This  tale  did  Margaret  tell  with  many  tears : 
And,  when  she  ended,  I  had  little  power 
To  give  her  comfort,  and  was  glad  to  take 
Such  words  of  hope  from  her  own  mouth  as  served 
To  cheer  us  both  : — but  long  we  had  not  talked 
E.e  we  built  up  a  pile  of  better  thoughts, 
And  with  a  brighter  eye  she  looked  around 
As  if  she  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy. 
We  parted. — 'Twas  the  time  of  early  springs 
i  left  her  busy  with  her  garden  tools  ; 
And  well  remember,  o'er  that  fence  she  looked 
And,  while  I  paced  along  the  footway  path, 


350  THE  EXCURSION. 

Called  out,  and  sent  a  blessing  after  me, 
With  tender  cheerfulness  ;  and  with  a  voice 
That  seemed  the  very  sound  of  happy  thoughts. 

"  I  roved  o'er  many  a  hill  and  many  a  dale, 
With  my  accustomed  load  ;  in  heat  and  cold, 
Through  many  a  wood,  and  many  an  open  ground, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  wet  and  fair. 
Drooping  or  blithe  of  heart,  as  might  befal  ; 
My  best  companions  now  the  driving  winds, 
And  now  the  "trotting  brooks  "  anc'  whispering  trees, 
And  now  the  music  of  my  own  sad  ."teps, 
With  many  a  short-lived  thought  that  passed  between, 
And  disappeared. — I  journeyed  back  this  way, 
When,  in  the  warmth  of  midsummer,  the  wheat 
Was  yellow  ;  and  the  soft  and  bladed  grass 
Springing  afresh  had  o'er  the  hay-field  spread 
Its  tender  verdure.     At   the  door  arrived, 
I  found  that  she  was  absent.     In  the  shade 
Where  now  we  sit,  I  waited  hei  return. 
Her  cottage,  then  a  cheerful  object,  wore 
Its  customary  look, — only,  it  seemed, 
The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch, 
Hung  down  in  heavier  tufts  :  and  that  bright  weed, 
The  yellow  stonecrop,  suffered  to  take  root 
Along  the  window's  edge,  profusely  grew, 
Blinding  the  lower  panes.     I  turned  aside, 
And  strolled  into  her  garden.     It  appeared 
To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 
Its  pride  of  neatness.     Daisy-flowers  and  thrift 
Had  broken  their  trim  lines,  and  straggled  o'er 
The  paths  they  used  to  deck  : — carnations,  once 
Prized  for  surpassing  beauty,  and  no  less 
For  the  peculiar  pains  they  had  required, 
Declined  their  languid  heads,  without  support. 
The  cumbrous  bind-weed,  with  its  wreaths  and  belis, 
Had  twined  about  her  two  small  rows  of  pease, 
And  dragged  them  to  the  earth. — Ere  this  an  hour 
Had  wasted. — Back  I  turned  my  restless  steps  ; 
A  stranger  passed  ;  and,  guessing  whom  I  sought, 
He  said  that  she  was  used  to  ramble  far. 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west  ;  and  now 
I  sate  with  sad  impatience.     From  within 
Her  solitary  infant  cried  aloud  ; 
Then,  like  a  blast  that  dies  away  self-stilled, 
The  voice  was  silent.     From  the  bench  1  rose  ; 
But  neither  could  divert  nor  soothe  my  thoughts. 
The  spot,  though  fair,  was  very  desolate — 
The  longer  I  remained  more  desolate  : 
And,  looking  round  me,  now  I  first  observed 
The  corner  stones,  on  either  side  the  porch, 
With  dull  red  stains  discoloured,  and  stuck  o'er 
With  tufts  and  hairs  of  wool,  as  if  the  sheep, 
That  fed  upon  the  common,  thkher  came 
Familiarly  ;  and  found  a  couching-place 
Even  at  her  threshold.     Deeper  shadows  fell 
From  these  tall  elms  ; — the  cottage-clock  struck  eight  ;- 
I  turned,  and  saw  her  distant  a  few  steps. 


THE  EXCURSION.  351 

Her  face  was  pale  and  thin,  her  figure  too 

Was  changed.    As  she  unlocked  the  door,  she  said, 

'  It  grieves  me  you  have  waited  here  so  long, 

But,  in  good  truth,  I've  wandered  much  of  late, 

And,  sometimes — to  my  shame  I  speak — have  need 

Of  my  best  prayers  to  bring  me  back  again.' 

While  on  the  board  she  spread  our  evening  meal, 

She  told  me — interrupting  not  the  work 

Which  gave  employment  to  her  listless  hands — 

That  she  had  parted  with  her  elder  child  ; 

To  a  kind  master  on  a  distant  farm 

Now  happily  apprenticed. — '  I  perceive 

You  look  at  me,  and  you  have  cause  ;  to-day 

I  have  been  travelling  far  ;  and  many  days 

About  the  fields  I  wander,  knowing  this 

Only,  that  what  I  seek  I  cannot  find  ; 

And  so  I  waste  my  time  :  for  I  am  changed  ; 

And  to  myself,'  said  she,  '  have  done  much  wrong 

And  to  his  helpless  infant.     I  have  slept 

Weeping,  and  weeping  have  I  waked  ;  my  tears 

Have  flowed  as  if  my  body  were  not  such 

As  others  are  ;  and  I  could  never  die. 

But  I  am  now  in  mind  and  in  my  heart 

More  easy  ;   and  I  hope,'  said  she,  '  that  Heaven 

Will  give  me  patience  to  endure  the  things 

Which  I  behold  at  home.'     It  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her ;  sir,  I  feel 

The  story  linger  in  my  heart ;  I  fear 

'Tis  long  and  tedious  ;  but  my  spirit  clings 

To  that  poor  woman  : — so  familiarly 

Do  I  perceive  her  manner,  and  her  look, 

And  presence,  and  so  deeply  do  I  feel 

Her  goodness,  that,  not  seldom,  in  my  walks 

A  momentary  trance  comes  over  me  ; 

And  to  myself  I  seem  to  muse  on  one 

By  sorrow  laid  asleep  ;— or  borne  away, 

A  human  being  destined  to  awake 

To  human  life,  or  something  very  near 

To  human  life,  when  he  shall  come  again 

For  whom  she  suffered.     Yes,  it  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her  :  evermore 

Her  eyelids  drooped,  her  eyes  were  downward  cast ; 

And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food, 

She  did  not  look  at  me.     Her  voice  was  low, 

Her  body  was  subdued.     In  every  act 

Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appeared 

The  careless  stillness  of  a  thinking  mind 

Self-occupied  :  to  which  all  outward  things 

Are  like  an  idle  matter.     Still  she  sighed, 

But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen, 

No  heaving  of  the  heart.     While  by  the  fire 

We  sate  together,  sighs  came  on  my  ear, 

I  knew  not  how,  and  hardly  whence  they  came. 

"  Ere  my  departure,  to  her  care  I  gave, 
For  her  son's  use,  some  tokens  of  regard, 
Which  with  a  look  of  welcome  she  received  ; 
And  I  exhorted  her  to  place  her  trust 


352  THE  EXCURSION. 

In  God's  good  love,  and  seek  his  help  by  prayer. 
I  took  my  staff,  and  when  I  kissed  her  babe 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.     I  left  her  then 
With  the  best  hope  and  comfort  I  could  give ; 
She  thanked  me  for  my  wish  ; — but  for  my  hope 
Methought  she  did  not  thank  me. 

I  returned, 
And  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flower 
Peeped  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  spring. 
I  found  her  sad  and  drooping  ;  she  had  learned 
No  tidings  of  her  husband  ;  if  he  lived, 
She  knew  not  that  he  lived  ;  if  he  were  dead, 
She  knew  not  he  was  dead.     She  seemed  the  same 
In  person  and  appearance  ;  but  her  house 
Bespake  a  sleepy  hand  of  negligence  ; 
The  floor  was  neither  dry  nor  neat,  the  hearth 
Was  comfortless,  and  her  small  lot  of  books, 
Which,  in  the  cottage  window,  heretofore 
Had  been  piled  up  against  the  corner  panes 
In  seemly  order,  now,  with  straggling  leaves 
Lay  scattered  here  and  there,  open  or  shut, 
As  they  had  chanced  to  fall.     Her  infant  babe 
Had  from  its  mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sighed  among  its  playthings.     Once  again 
I  turned  towards  the  garden  gate,  and  saw, 
More  plainly  still,  that  poverty  and  grief 
Were  now  come  nearer  to  her  :  weeds  defaced 
The  hardened  soil,  and  knots  of  withered  grass  : 
No  ridges  there  appeared  of  clear  black  mould, 
No  winter  greenness  ;  of  her  herbs  and  flowers, 
It  seemed  the  better  part  were  gnawed  away 
Or  trampled  into  earth  ;  a  chain  of  straw, 
Which  had  been  twined  about  the  slender  stem 
Of  a  young  apple-tree,  lay  at  its  root, 
The  bark  was  nibbled  round  by  truant  sheep. 
Margaret  stood  near,  her  infant  in  her  arms, 
And,  noting  that  my  eye  was  on  the  tree, 
She  said,  'I  fear  it  will  be  dead  and  gone 
Ere  Robert  come  again.'     Towards  the  house 
Together  »'e  returned  ;  and  she  inquired 
If  I  had  any  hope  : — but  for  her  babe 
And  for  her  little  orphan  boy,  she  said, 
She  had  no  wish  to  live,  that  she  must  die 
Of  sorrow.     Yet  I  saw  the  idle  loom 
Still  in  its  place  ;  his  Sunday  garments  hung 
Upon  the  self-same  nail ;  his  very  staff 
Stood  undisturbed  behind  the  door.     And  when, 
In  bleak  December,  I  retraced  this  way, 
She  told  me  that  her  little  babe  was  dead, 
And  she  was  left  alone.    She  now,  released 
From  her  maternal  cares,  had  taken  up 
The  employment  common  through  these  wilds,  and  gained 
By  spinning  hemp  a  pittance  for  herself ; 
And  for  this  end  had  hired  a  neighbour's  boy 
To  give  her  needful  help.     That  very  time 
Most  willingly  she  put  her  work  aside, 
And  walked  with  me  along  the  miry  road. 


THE  EXCURSION.  853 

Heedless  how  far  ;  and  in  such  piteous  sort 
That  any  heart  had  ached  to  hear  her  ;  begged 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  went,  I  still  would  ask 
For  him  whom  she  had  lost.     We  parted  then — 
Our  final  parting  ;  for  from  that  time  forth 
Did  many  seasons  pass  ere  I  returned 
Into  this  tract  again. 

Nine  tedious  years ; 
From  their  first  separation,  nine  long  years. 
She  lingered  in  unquiet  widowhood  ; 
A  wife  and  widow.     Needs  must  it  have  been 
A  sore  heart-wasting.     I  have  heard,  my  friend, 
That  in  yon  arbour  oftentimes  she  sate 
Alone,  through  half  the  vacant  Sabbath-day  ; 
And,  if  a  dog  passed  by,  she  still  would  quit 
The  shade,  and  look  abroad.     On  this  old  bench 
For  hours  she  sate ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick.     You  see  that  path, 
Now  faint, — the  grass  has  crept  o'er  its  gray  line  ; 
There,  to  and  fro,  she  paced  through  many  a  day 
Of  the  warm  summer,  from  a  belt  of  hemp 
That  girt  her  waist,  spinning  the  long-drawn  thread 
With  backward  steps.     Yet  ever  as  there  passed 
A  man  whose  garments  showed  the  soldier's  red. 
Or  crippled  mendicant  in  sailor's  garb, 
The  little  child  who  sate  to  turn  the  wheel 
Ceased  from  his  task  ;  and  she  with  faltering  voice 
Made  many  a  fond  inquiry  ;  and  when  they, 
Whose  presence  gave  no  comfort,  were  gone  by, 
Her  heart  was  still  more  sad.     And  by  yon  gate, 
That  bars  the  traveller's  road,  she  often  stood, 
And  when  a  stranger  horseman  came,  the  latch 
Would  lift,  and  in  his  face  look  wistfully  : 
Most  happy,  if,  from  aught  discovered  there 
Of  tender  feeling,  she  might  dare  repeat 
The  same  sad  question.     Meanwhile  her  poor  hut 
Sank  to  decay  :  for  he  was  gone  whose  hand, 
At  the  first  nipping  of  October  frost, 
Closed  up  each  chink,  and  with  fresh  bands  of  straw 
Chequered  the  green-grown  thatch.     And  so  she  lived 
Through  the  long  winter,  reckless  and  alone  ; 
Until  her  house  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain, 
Was  sapped  ;  and  while  she  slept  the  nightly  damps 
Did  chill  her  breast  ;  and  in  the  stormy  day 
Her  tattered  clothes  were  ruffled  by  the  wind  ; 
Even  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.     Yet  still 
She  loved  this  wretched  spot,  nor  would  for  worlds 
Have  parted  hence  ;  and  still  that  length  of  road, 
And  this  rude  bench,  one  torturing  hope  endeared, 
Fast  rooted  at  her  heart  :  and  here,  my  friend, 
In  sickness  she  remained  ;  and  here  she  died, 
Last  human  tenant  of  these  ruined  walls." 

The  old  man  ceased  :  he  saw  that  I  was  moved ; 
From  that  low  bench,  rising  instinctively 
I  turned  aside  in  weakness,  nor  had  power 
To  thank  him  for  the  tale  which  he  had  told. 


854  THE  EXCUBSION. 

I  stood,  and  leaning  o'er  the  garden  wall, 

Reviewed  that  woman's  sufferings  ;  and  it  seemed 

To  comfort  me  while  with  a  brother's  love 

I  blessed  her — in  the  impotence  of  grief. 

At  length  towards  the  cottage  I  returned 

Fondly, — and  traced,  with  interest  more  mild, 

That  secret  spirit  of  humanity 

Which,  'mid  the  calm  oblivious  tendencies 

Of  nature,  'mid  her  plants,  and  weeds,  and  flowers, 

And  silent  overgrowings,  still  survived. 

The  old  man,  noting  this,  resumed,  and  said, 

"  My  friend  1  enough  to  sorrow  you  have  given, 

The  purposes  of  wisdom  ask  no  more  ; 

Be  wise  and  cheerful  ;  and  no  longer  read 

The  forms  of  things  with  an  unworthy  eye. 

She  sleeps  in  the  calm  earth,  and  peace  is  here. 

I  well  remember  that  those  very  plumes, 

Those  weeds,  and  the  high  spear-grass  on  that  wall. 

By  mist  and  silent  rain-drops  silvered  o  er, 

As  once  I  passed,  did  to  my  heart  convey 

So  still  an  image  of   tranquillity, 

So  calm  and  still,  and  looked  so  beautiful 

Amid  the  uneasy  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind, 

That  what  we  feel  of  sorrow  and  despair 

From  ruin  and  from  change,  and  all  the  grief 

The  passing  shows  of  being  leave  behind, 

Appeared  an  idle  dream  that  could  not  live 

Where  meditation  was.     I  turned  away, 

And  walked  along  my  road  in  happiness." 

He  ceased.     Ere  long  the  sun  declining  shot 
A  slant  and  mellow  radiance,  which  began 
To  fall  upon  us,  while  beneath  the  trees, 
We  sate  on  that  low  bench  :  and  now  we  felt, 
Admonished  thus,  the  sweet  hour  coming  on. 
A  linnet  warbled  from  those  lofty  elms, 
A  thrush  sang  loud,  and  other  melodies, 
At  distance  heard,  peopled  the  milder  air. 
The  old  man  rose,  and,  with  a  sprightly  mien 
Of  hopeful  preparation,  grasped  his  staff: 
Together  casting  then  a  farewell  look 
Upon  those  silent  walls,  we  left  the  shade  ; 
And,  ere  the  stars  were  visible,  had  reached 
A  village  inn, — our  evening  resting-place. 


BOOK   II. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  author  describes  his  travels  with  the  Wanderer,  whose  character  is  further  illustrated— Morn- 
ing scene,  and  view  of  a  village  wake — Wanderer's  account  of  a  friend  whom  he  purposes  to 
visit — View  from  an  eminence  of  the  valley  which  his  friend  had  chosen  for  his  retreat— Feelings 
of  the  author  at  the  sight  of  it — Sound  of  singing  from  below — A  funeral  procession — Descent 
into  the  valley — Observations  drawn  from  the  Wanderer  at  sight  of  a  book  accidentally  discovered 
in  a  recess  in  the  valley — Meeting  with  the  Wanderer's  friend,  the  Solitary— Wanderer's 
description  of  the  mode  of  burial  in  this  mountainous  district— Solitary  contrasts  with  this,  that 
of  the  individual  carried  a  few  minutes  before  from  the  cottage — Brief  conversation — The  cottage 


THE  EXCURSION.  855 

entered—  description  of  the  Solitary's  apartment— Repast  there— View  from  the  window  of  twa 
mountain  summits— and  the  Solitary's  description  o(  the  companionship  they  afford  him — Account 
of  the  departed  inmate  of  the  cottage— Description  of  a  grand  spectacle  upon  the  mountains, 
with  its  effect  upon  the  Solitary's  mind— Quit  the  house. 

THE  SOLITARY. 

In  days  of  yore  how  fortunately  fared 

The  minstrel !  wandering  on  from  hall  to  hall, 

Baronial  court  or  royal  ;  cheered  with  gifts 

Munificent,  and  love,  and  ladies'  praise  ; 

Now  meeting  on  his  road  an  armed  knight, 

Now  resting  with  a  pilgrim  by  the  side 

Of  a  clear  brook  ; — beneath  an  abbey's  roof 

One  evening  sumptuously  lodged  ;  the  next 

Humbly:  in  a  religious  hospital ; 

Or,  with  some  merry  outlaws  of  the  wood  ; 

Or  haply  shrouded  in  a  hermit's  cell. 

Him,  sleeping  or  awake,  the  robber  spared  ; 

He  walked — protected  from  the  sword  of  war 

By  virtue  of  that  sacred  instrument 

His  harp,  suspended  at  the  traveller's  side  ; 

His  dear  companion  wheresoe'er  he  went 

Opening  from  land  to  land  an  easy  way 

By  melody,  and  by  the  charm  of  verse. 

Yet  not  the  noblest  of  that  honoured  race 

Drew  happier,  loftier,  more  impassioned  thoughts 

From  his  long  journeyings  and  eventful  life, 

Than  this  obscure  itinerant  had  skill 

To  gather,  ranging  through  the  tamer  ground 

Of  these  our  unimaginative  days  ; 

Both  while  he  trod  the  earth  in  humblest  guise 

Accoutred  with  his  burthen  and  his  staff ; 

And  now,  when  free  to  move  with  lighter  pace. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  I,  whose  favourite  school 
Hath  been  the  fields,  the  roads,  and  rural  lanes, 
Looked  on  this  guide  with  reverential  love  ? 
Each  with  the  other  pleased,  we  now  pursued 
Our  journey — beneath  favourable  skies. 
Turn  wheresoe'er  we  would,  he  was  a  light 
Unfailing  :  not  a  hamlet  could  we  pass, 
Rarely  a  house,  that  did  not  yield  to  him 
Remembrances  ;  or  from  his  tongue  call  forth 
Some  way-beguiling  tale.     Nor  less  regard 
Accompanied  those  strains  of  apt  discourse, 
Which  nature's  various  objects  might  inspire  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  his  face  I  read 
His  overflowing  spirit.     Birds  and  beasts, 
And  the  mute  fish  that  glances  in  the  stream 
And  harmless  reptile  crawling  in  the  sun, 
And  gorgeous  insect  hovering  in  the  air, 
The  fowl  domestic,  and  the  household  dog, 
In  his  capacious  mind — he  loved  them  all : 
Their  rights  acknowledging,  he  felt  for  all. 
Oft  was  occasion  given  me  to  perceive 
How  the  calm  pleasures  of  the  pasturing  herd 
To  happy  contemplation  soothed  his  walk  ; 


356  THE  EXCURSION. 

How  the  poor  brute's  condition,  forced  to  ran 
Its  course  of  suffering  in  the  public  road, 
Sad  contrast  !  all  too  often  smote  his  heart 
With  unavailing  pity.     Rich  in  love 
And  sweet  humanity,  he  was,  himself, 
To  the  degree  that  he  desired,  beloved. 
Greetings  and  smiles  we  met  with  all  day  long 
From  faces  that  he  knew  ;  we  took  our  seats 
By  many  a  cottage  hearth,  where  he  received 
The  welcome  of  an  inmate  come  from  far. 
Nor  was  he  loth  to  enter  ragged  huts, 
Huts  where  his  charity  was  blest ;  his  voice 
Heard  as  the  voice  of  an  experienced  friend. 
And,  sometimes,  where  the  poor  man  held  dispute 
With  his  own  mind,  unable  to  subdue 
Impatience  through  inaptness  to  perceive 
General  distress  in  his  particular  lot ; 
Or  cherishing  resentment,  or  in  vain 
Struggling  against  it,  with  a  soul  perplexed, 
And  finding  in  herself  no  steady  power 
To  draw  the  line  of  comfort  that  divides 
Calamity,  the  chastisement  of  Heaven, 
From  the  injustice  of  our  brother  men  ; 
To  him  appeal  was  made  as  to  a  judge  ; 
Who,  with  an  understanding  heart,  allayed 
The  perturbation  ;  listen'd  to  the  plea  ; 
Resolved  the  dubious  point  ;  and  sentence  gave 
So  grounded,  so  applied,  that  it  was  heard 
With  soften'd  spirit — even  when  it  condemned. 

Such  intercourse  I  witnessed,  while  we  roved, 
Now  as  his  choice  directed,  now  as  mine  ; 
Or  both,  with  equal  readiness  of  will, 
Of  course  submitting  to  the  changeful  breeze 
Of  accident.     But  when  the  rising  sun 
Had  three  times  called  us  to  renew  our  walk, 
My  fellow-traveller  claimed  with  earnest  voice, 
As  if  the  thought  were  but  a  moment  old, 
An  absolute  dominion  for  the  day. 
We  started — and  he  led  towards  the  hills  ; 
Up  through  an  ample  vale,  with  higher  hills 
Before  us,  mountains  stern  and  desolate  ; 
But,  in  the  majesty  of  distance,  now 
Set  off,  and  to  our  ken  appearing  fair 
Of  aspect,  with  aerial  softness  clad, 
And  beautified  with  morning's  purple  beams. 

The  wealthy,  the  luxurious,  by  the  stress 
Of  business  roused,  or  pleasure,  ere  their  time, 
May  roll  in  chariots,  or  provoke  the  hoofs 
Of  the  fleet  coursers  they  bestride,  to  raise 
From  earth  the  dust  of  morning,  slow  to  rise  ; 
And  they,  if  blest  with  health  and  hearts  at  ease. 
Shall  lack  not  their  enjoyment : — but  how  faint 
Compared  with  ours  !  who,  pacing  side  by  side, 
Could,  with  an  eye  of  leisure,  look  on  all 
That  we  beheld  ;  and  lend  the  listening  sense 
To  every  grateful  sound  of  earth  and  air  ; 


THE  EXCURSION.  357 

Pausing  at  will — our  spirits  braced,  our  thoughts 

Pleasant  as  roses  in  the  thickets  blown, 

And  pure  as  dew  bathing  their  crimson  leaves. 

Mount  slowly,  sun  !  that  we  may  journey  long, 
By  this  dark  hill  protected  from  thy  beams  ! 
Such  is  the  summer  pilgrim's  frequent  wish  ; 
But  quickly  from  among  our  morning  thoughts 
'Twas  chased  away  :  for,  toward  the  western  side 
Of  the  broad  vale,  casting  a  casual  glance, 
We  saw  a  throng  of  people  : — wherefore  met? 
Blithe  notes  of  music,  suddenly  let  loose 
On  the  thrilled  ear,  and  flags  uprising,  yield 
Prompt  answer  :  they  proclaim  the  annual  wake, 
Which  the  bright  season  favours. — Tabor  and  pipe 
In  purpose  join  to  hasten  and  reprove 
The  laggard  rustic  ;  and  repay  with  boons 
Of  merriment  a  party-coloured  knot, 
Already  formed  upon  the  village  green. 
Beyond  the  limits  of  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  broad  hill,  glistened  upon  our  sight 
That  gay  assemblage.     Round  them  and  above, 
Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed, 
Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 
Half-veiled  in  vapoury  cloud,  the  silver  steam 
Of  dews  fast  melting  on  their  leafy  boughs 
By  the  strong  sunbeams  smitten.     Like  a  mast 
Of  gold,  the  maypole  shines  ;  as  if  the  rays 
Of  morning,  aided  by  exhaling  dew, 
With  gladsome  influence  could  re-animate 
The  faded  garlands  hanging  from  its  sides. 

Said  I,  "  The  music  and  the  sprightly  scene 
Invite  us  ;  shall  we  quit  our  road,  and  join 
These  festive  matins  ?" — He  replied,  "  Not  loth 
Here  would  I  linger,  and  with  you  partake, 
Not  one  hour  merely,  but  till  evening's  close, 
The  simple  pastimes  of  the  day  and  place. 
By  the  fleet  racers,  ere  the  sun  be  set, 
The  turf  of  yon  large  pasture  will  be  skimmed  ; 
There,  too,  the  lusty  wrestlers  shall  contend  : 
But  know  we  not  that  he  who  intermits 
The  appointed  task  and  duties  of  the  day, 
Untunes  full  oft  the  pleasures  of  the  day  ; 
Checking  the  finer  spirits  that  refuse 
To  flow  when  purposes  are  lightly  changed  ? 
We  must  proceed — a  length  of  journey  yet 
Remains  untraced."    Then,  pointing  with  his  staff 
Towards  those  craggy  summits,  his  intent 
He  thus  imparted  : 

"  In  a  spot  that  lies 
Among  yon  mountain  fastnesses  concealed, 
You  will  receive,  before  the  hour  of  noon, 
Good  recompense,  I  hope,  for  this  day's  toil — 
From  sight  of  one  who  lives  secluded  there, 
Lonesome  and  lost :  of  whom,  and  whose  past  life, 
(Not  to  forestal  such  knowledge  as  maybe 


358  THE  EXCURSION. 

More  faithfully  collected  from  himself,) 
This  brief  communication  shall  suffice. 

"  Though  now  sojourning  there,  he,  like  myself, 
Sprang  from  a  stock  of  lowly  parentage 
Among  the  wilds  of  Scotland,  in  a  tract 
Where  many  a  sheltered  and  well-tended  plant, 
Bears,  on  the  humblest  ground  of  social  life, 
Blossoms  of  piety  and  innocence. 
Such  grateful  promises  his  youth  displayed  : 
And,  having  shown  in  study  forward  zeal, 
He  to  the  ministry  was  duly  called  ; 
And  straight  incited  by  a  curious  mind 
Filled  with  vague  hopes,  he  undertook  the  charge 
Of  chaplain  to  a  military  troop 
Cheered  by  the  Highland  bagpipe,  as  they  marched 
In  plaided  vest, — his  fellow-countrymen, 
The  office  filling,  yet  by  native  power 
And  force  of  native  inclination,  made 
An  intellectual  ruler  in  the  haunts 
Of  social  vanity — he  walked  the  world, 
Gay,  and  affecting  graceful  gaiety  ; 
Lax,  buoyant — less  a  pastor  with  his  flock 
Than  a  soldier  among  soldiers — lived  and  roamed 
Where  fortune  led  : — and  fortune,  who  oft  proves 
The  careless  wanderer's  friend,  to  him  made  known 
A  blooming  lady— a  conspicuous  flower, 
Admired  for  beauty,  for  her  sweetness  praised  ; 
Whom  he  had  sensibility  to  love, 
Ambition  to  attempt,  and  skill  to  win. 

"  For  this  fair  bride,  most  rich  in  gifts  of  mind, 
Nor  sparingly  endowed  with  worldly  wealth, 
His  office  he  relinquished  ;  and  retired 
From  the  world's  notice  to  a  rural  home. 
Youth's  season  yet  with  him  was  scarcely  past, 
And  she  was  in  youth's  prime.     How  full  their  joy, 
How  free  their  love  !  nor  did  that  love  decay, 
Nor  joy  abate,  till,  pitiable  doom  ! 
In-  the  short  course  of  one  undreaded  year 
Death  blasted  all.— Death  suddenly  o'erthrew 
Two  lovely  children — all  that  they  possessed  ! 
The  mother  followed  :— miserably  bare 
The  one  survivor  stood  ;  he  wept,  he  prayed 
For  his  dismissal  ;  day  and  night,  compelled 
By  pain  to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  grave, 
And  face  the  regions  of  eternity. 
An  uncomplaining  apathy  displaced 
This  anguish  ;  and,  indifferent  to  delight, 
To  aim  and  purpose,  he  consumed  his  days, 
To  private  interest  dead,  and  public  care. 
So  lived  he  ;  so  he  might  have  died. 

But  now, 
To  the  wide  world's  astonishment,  appeared 
A  glorious  opening,  the  unlooked-for  dawn, 
That  promised  everlasting  joy  to  France  ! 
Her  voice  of  social  transport  reached  even  him  ! 
He  broke  from  his  contracted  bounds,  repaired 


TTTE  EXCURSION.  35d 

To  the  great  city,  an  emporium  then 

Of  golden  expectations,  and  receiving 

Freights  every  day  from  a  new  world  of  hope. 

Thither  his  popular  talents  he  transferred  ; 

And,  from  the  pulpit,  zealously  maintained 

The  cause  of  Christ  and  civil  liberty, 

As  one  ;  and  moving  to  one  glorious  end. 

Intoxicating  service  1  I  might  say 

A  happy  service  ;  for  he  was  sincere 

As  vanity  and  fondness  (or  applause, 

And  new  and  shapeless  wishes,  would  allow. 

"  That  righteous  cause  (such  power  hath  freedom  bound. 
For  one  hostility,  in  friendly  league 
Ethereal  natures  and  the  worst  of  slaves  ; 
Was  served  by  rival  advocates  that  came 
From  regions  opposite  as  heaven  and  hell. 
One  courage  seemed  to  animate  them  all : 
And,  from  the  dazzling  conquests  daily  gained 
By  their  united  efforts,  there  arose 
A  proud  and  most  presumptuous  confidence 
In  the  transcendent  wisdom  of  the  age, 
And  her  discernment ;  not  alone  in  rights, 
And  in  the  origin  and  bounds  of  power, 
Social  and  temporal ;  but  in  laws  divine, 
Deduced  by  reason,  or  to  faith  revealed. 
And  overweening  trust  was  raised  ;  and  fear 
Cast  out, — alike  of  person  and  of  thing. 
Plague  from  this  union  spread,  whose  subtle  bane 
The  strongest  did  not  easily  escape ; 
And  he,  what  wond  r  A  took  a  mortal  taint. 
How  shall  I  trace  the  change,  how  bear  to  tell 
That  he  broke  faith  with  them  whom  he  had  laid 
In  earth's  dark  chambers  with  a  Christian's  hope  ! 
An  infidel  contempt  of  Holy  Writ 
Stole  by  degrees  upon  his  mind  ;  and  hence 
Life,  like  that  Roman  Janus,  double-faced  ; 
Vilest  hypocrisy,  the  laughing,  gay 
Hypocrisy,  not  leagued  with  fear,  but  pride. 
Smooth  words  he  had  to  wheedle  simple  souls  ; 
But,  for  disciples  of  the  inner  school, 
Old  freedom  was  old  servitude,  and  they 
The  wisest  whose  opinions  stooped  the  least 
To  know  restraints  :  and  who  most  boldly  drew 
Hopeful  prognostications  from  a  creed, 
That,  in  the  light  of  false  philosophy, 
Spread  like  a  halo  round  a  misty  moon, 
Widening  its  circle  as  the  storms  advance. 

"  His  sacred  function  was  at  length  renounced ; 
And  every  day  and  every  place  enjoyed 
The  unshackled  layman's  natural  liberty  ; 
Speech,  manners,  morals,  all  without  disguise. 
I  do  not  wish  to  wrong  him  ; — though  the  course 
Of  private  life  licentiously'displayed 
Unhallowed  actions — planted  like  a  crown 
Upon  the  insolent  aspiring  brow 
Of  spurious  notions — worn  as  open  signs  2  r 


THE  EXCURSION. 

Of  prejudice  subdued — he  still  retained, 

'Mid  such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 

From  nature — an  intense  and  glowing  mind. 

Wherefore,  when  humbled  Liberty  grew  weak, 

And  mortal  sickness  on  her  face  appeared, 

He  coloured  objects  to  his  own  desire 

As  with  a  lover's  passion.     Yet  his  moods 

Of  pain  were  keen  as  those  of  better  men, 

Nay,  keener — as  his  fortitude  was  less. 

And  he  continued,  when  worse  days  were  come, 

To  deal  about  his  sparkling  eloquence, 

Struggling  against  the  strange  reverse  with  zeal 

That  showed  like  happiness  ;  but,  in  despite 

Of  all  this  outside  bravery,  within, 

He  neither  felt  encouragement  nor  hope. 

For  moral  dignity,  and  strength  of  mind, 

Were  wanting  ;  and  simplicity  of  life  ; 

And  reverence  for  himself;  and,  last  and  best, 

Confiding  thoughts,  through  love  and  fear  of  Him 

Before  whose  sight  the  troubles  of  this  world 

Are  vain  as  billows  in  a  tossing  sea. 

"The  glory  of  the  times  fading  away, 
The  splendour,  which  had  given  a  festal  air 
To  self-importance,  hallowed  it,  and  vei'ed 
From  his  own  sight, — this  gone,  he  forfeited 
All  joy  in  human  nature  ;  was  consumed, 
And  vexed,  and  c!~:.fed,  by  levity  and  scorn, 
And  fruitless  indignation  ;  galled  by  pride  ; 
Made  desperate  by  contempt  of  men  who  throve 
Before  his  sight  in  power  or  fame,  and  won, 
Without  desert,  what  he  desired  ;  weak  men, 
Too  weak  even  for  his  envy  or  his  hate  ! 
Tormented  thus,  after  a  wandering  course 
Of  discontent,  and  inwardly  opprest 
With  malady — in  part,  I  fear,  provoked 
By  weariness  of  life,  he  fixed  his  home, 
Or,  rather  say,  sate  down  by  very  chance, 
Among  these  rugged  hills  ;  where  now  he  dwells, 
And  wastes  the  sad  remainder  of  his  hours 
In  self-indulging  spleen,  that  doth  not  want 
Its  own  voluptuousness  ;  on  this  resolved, 
With  this  content,  that  he  will  live  and  die 
Forgotten, — at  safe  distance  from  a  'world 
Not  moving  to  his  mind.'  " 

These  serious  words 
Closed  the  preparatory  notices 
That  served  my  fellow-traveller  to  beguile 
The  way,  while  we  advanced  up  that  wide  vale. 
Diverging  now  (as  if  his  quest  had  been 
Some  secret  of  the  mountains,  cavern,  fall 
Of  water— or  some  boastful  eminence, 
Renowned  for  splendid  prospect  far  and  wide) 
We  scaled,  without  a  track  to  ease  our  steps, 
A  steep  ascent ;  and  reached  a  dreary  plain, 
With  a  tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hill  tops 
Before  us  ;  savage  region  !  which  I  paced 
Dispirited  :  when,  all  at  once,  behold  ! 


THE  EXCURSION.  361 

Beneath  our  feet,  a  little  lowly  vale, 

A  lowly  vale,  and  yet  uplifted  high 

Among  the  mountains  ;  even  as  if  the  spot 

Had  been,  from  eldest  time  by  wish  of  theirs, 

So  placed,— to  be  shut  out  from  all  the  world  ! 

Urn-like  it  was  in  shape,  deep  as  an  urn  ; 

With  rocks  encompassed,  save  that  to  the  south 

Was  one  small  opening,  where  a  heath-clad  ridge 

Supplied  a  boundary  less  abrupt  and  close  ; 

A  quiet  treeless  nook,  with  two  green  fields, 

A  liquid  pool  that  glittered  in  the  sun, 

And  one  bare  dwelling  ;  one  abode,  no  more  ! 

It  seemed  the  home  of  poverty  and  toil, 

Though  not  of  want :  the  little  fields,  made  green 

By  husbandry  of  many  thrifty  years, 

Paid  cheerful  tribute  to  the  moorland  house. 

There  crows  the  cock,  single  in  his  domain  ; 

The  small  birds  find  in  spring  no  thicket  there 

To  shroud  them  ;  only  from  the  neighbouring  vales 

The  cuckoo,  straggling  up  to  the  hill  tops, 

Shouteth  faint  tidings  of  some  gladder  place. 

Ah  !  what  a  sweet  recess,  thought  I,  is  here  1 
Instantly  throwing  down  my  limbs  at  ease 
Upon  a  bed  of  heath  ;— full  many  a  spot 
Of  hidden  beauty  have  I  chanced  to  espy 
Among  the  mountains  ;  never  one  like  this, 
So  lonesome,  and  so  perfectly  secure  ; 
Not  melancholy— no,  for  it  is  green, 
And  bright,  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 
In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected  !     Far  and  near 
We  have  an  image  of  the  pristine  earth, 
The  planet  in  its  nakedness  ;  were  this 
Man's  only  dwelling,  sole  appointed  seat, 
First,  last,  and  single  in  the  breathing  world, 
It  could  not  be  more  quiet :  peace  is  here 
Or  nowhere  ;  days  unruffled  by  the  gale 
Of  public  news  or  private  ;  years  that  pass 
Forgetfully  ;  uncalled  upon'to  pay 
The  common  penalties  of  mortal  life, 
Sickness,  or  accident,  or  grief,  or  pain. 

On  these  and  kindred  thoughts  intent  I  lay, 
In  silence  musing  by  my  comrade's  side, 
He  also  silent :  when  from  out  the  heart 
Of  that  profound  abyss  a  solemn  voice 
Or  several  voices  in  one  solemn  sound, 
Was  heard— ascending  :  mournful,  deep,  and  blow 
The  cadence,  as  of  psalms — a  funeral  dirge  ! 
We  listened,  looking  down  upon  the  hut, 
But  seeing  no  one  ;  meanwhile  from  below 
The  strain  continued,  spiritual  as  before  ; 
And  now  distinctly  could  I  recognize 
These  words  .—•'Shall  in  (he grave  thy  love  be  known, 
In  death  thy  faithfulness  ?"—■ '  God  rest  hi?  sou  1 " 


362  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  wanderer  cried,  abruptly  breaking  silence,— 
"  He  is  departed,  and  finds  peace  at  last  1" 

This  scarcely  spoken,  and  those  holy  strains 
Not  ceasing,  forth  appeared  in  view  a  band 
Of  rustic  persons,  from  behind  the  hut 
Bearing  a  coffin  in  the  midst,  with  which 
They  shaped  their  course  along  the  sloping  side 
Of  that  small  valley  ;  singing  as  they  moved  ; 
A  sober  company  and  few,  the  men 
Bare-headed,  and  all  decently  attired  ! 
Some  steps  when  they  had  thus  advanced,  the  dirge 
Ended  ;  and,  from  the  stillness  that  ensued 
Recovering,  to  my  friend  I  said,  ' '  You  spake, 
Methought,  with  apprehension  that  these  rites 
Are  paid  to  him  upon  whose  shy  retreat 
This  day  we  purposed  to  intrude." — "I  did  so, 
But  let  us  hence,  that  we  may  learn  the  truth  : 
Perhaps  it  is  not  he  but  some  one  else 
For  whom  this  pious  service  is  performed  ; 
Some  other  tenant  of  the  solitude." 

So,  to  a  steep  and  difficult  descent 
Trusting  ourselves,  we  wound  from  crag  to  crag, 
Where  passage  could  be  won  ;  and,  as  the  last 
Of  the  mute  train,  upon  the  heathy  top 
Of  that  off-sloping  outlet,  disappeared, 
I,  more  impatient  in  my  downward  course, 
Had  landed  upon  easy  ground  ;  and  there 
Stood  waiting  for  my  comrade.     When  behold 
An  object  that  enticed  my  steps  aside  ! 
A  narrow,  winding  entry  opened  out 
Into  a  platform — that  lay,  sheepfold-wise, 
Inclosed  between  an  upright  mass  of  rock 
And  one  old  moss-grown  wall  ; — a  cool  recess, 
And  fanciful !     For,  where  the  rock  and  wall 
Met  in  an  angle,  hung  a  penthouse,  framed 
By  thrusting  two  rude  staves  into  the  wall 
And  overlaying  them  with  mountain  sods  ; 
To  weather-fend  a  little  turf-built  seat 
Whereon  a  full-grown  man  might  rest,  nor  dread 
The  burning  sunshine,  or  a  transient  shower  ; 
But  the  whole  plainly  wrought  by  children's  hands  ! 
Whose  skill  had  thronged  the  floor  with  a  proud  show 
Of  baby-houses,  curiously  arranged  ; 
Nor  wanting  ornament  of  walks  between, 
With  mimic  trees  inserted  in  the  turf, 
And  gardens  interposed.     Pleased  with  the  sight, 
I  could  not  choose  but  beckon  to  my  guide, 
Who,  entering,  round  him  threw  a  careless  glance, 
Impatient  to  pass  on,  when  I  exclaimed, 
"  Lo  1  what  is  here?"  and  stooping  down,  drew  forth 
A  book,  that,  in  the  midst  of  stones  and  moss, 
A  wreck  of  party-coloured  earthenware, 
Aptly  disposed,  had  lent  its  help  to  raise 
One  of  those  petty  structures.     ' '  Gracious  Heaven  1" 
The  Wanderer  cried,  ' '  it  cannot  but  be  his, 
And  he  is  gone  !"     The  book,  which  in  my  hand 


THE  EXCURSION.  303 

Had  opened  of  itself,  (for  it  was  swoln 

With  searching  damp,  and  seemingly  had  lain 

To  the  injurious  elements  exposed 

From  week  to  week,)  I  found  to  be  a  work 

In  the  French  tongue,  a  novel  of  Voltaire, 

His  famous  Optimist.     "  Unhappy  man  !" 

Kxclaimed  my  friend  ;  "here  then  has  been  to  him 

Retreat  within  retreat,  a  sheltering-place 

Within  how  deep  a  shelter  !     He  had  fits, 

Even  to  the  last,  of  genuine  tenderness, 

And  loved  the  haunts  of  children  :  here,  no  doubt, 

Pleasing  and  pleased,  he  shared  their  simple  sports, 

Or  sate  companionless  ;  and  here  the  book, 

Left  and  forgotten  in  his  careless  way, 

Must  by  the  cottage  children  have  been  found  : 

Heaven  bless  them,  and  their  inconsiderate  work  ! 

To  what  odd  purpose  have  the  darlings  turned 

This  sad  memorial  of  their  hapless  friend  1" 

"Me,"  said  I,  "most  doth  it  surprise,  to  find 
Such  book  in  such  a  place  !"     "A  book  it  is," 
He  answered,  "  to  the  person  suited  well, 
Though  little  suited  to  surrounding  things  ; 
'Tis  strange,  I  grant ;  and  stranger  still  had  been 
To  see  the  man  who  owned  it,  dwelling  here, 
With  one  poor  shepherd,  far  from  all  the  world  ! 
Now,  if  our  errand  hath  been  thrown  away, 
As  from  these  intimations  I  forebode, 
Grieved  shall  I  be — less  for  my  sake  than  yours  ; 
And  least  of  all  for  him  who  is  no  more." 

By  this,  the  book  was  in  the  old  man's  hand  ; 
And  he  continued,  glancing  on  the  leaves 
An  eye  of  scorn,  "  The  lover,"  said  he,  "  doomed 
To  love  when  hope  hath  failed  him — whom  no  depth 
Of  privacy  is  deep  enough  to  hide, 
Hath  yet  his  bracelet  or  his  lock  of  hair, 
And  that  is  joy  to  him.     When  change  of  times 
Hath  summoned  kings  to  scaffolds,  do  but  give 
The  faithful  servant,  who  must  hide  his  head 
Henceforth  in  whatsoever  nook  he  may, 
A  kerchief  sprinkled  with  his  master's  blood, 
And  he  too  hath  his  comforter.     How  poor, 
Beyond  all  poverty  how  destitute, 
Must  that  man  have  been  left,  who,  hither  driven, 
Flying  or  seeking,  could  yet  bring  with  him 
No  dearer  relique,  and  no  better  stay, 
Than  this  dull  product  of  a  scoffer's  pen, 
Impure  conceits  discharging  from  a  heart 
Hardened  by  impious  pride  ! — I  did  not  fear 
To  tax  you  with  this  journey  ;" — mildly  said 
My  venerable  friend,  as  forth  we  stepped 
Into  the  presence  of  the  cheerful  light — 
"  For  I  have  knowledge  that  you  do  not  shrink 
From  moving  spectacles  ; — but  let  us  on." 

So  speaking,  on  he  went,  and  at  the  word 
I  followed,  till  he  made  a  sudden  stand  : 


364  THE  EXCURSION. 

For  full  in  view,  approaching  through  a  gate 

That  opened  from  the  inclosure  of  green  fields 

Into  the  rough  uncultivated  ground, 

Behold  the  man  whom  he  had  fancied  dead ! 

I  knew,  from  his  deportment,  mien,  and  dress, 

That  it  could  be  no  other  ;  a  pale  face, 

A  tall  and  meagre  person,  in  a  garb 

Not  rustic,  dull  and  faded  like  himself  1 

He  saw  us  not,  though  distant  but  few  steps  ; 

For  he  was  busy,  dealing,  from  a  store 

Upon  a  broad  leaf  carried,  choicest  strings 

Of  red  ripe  currants  ;  gift  by  which  he  strove, 

With  intermixture  of  endearing  words, 

To  soothe  a  child,  who  walked  beside  him,  weeping 

As  if  disconsolate. — "They  to  the  grave 

Are  bearing  him,  my  little  one,"  he  said  ; 

"To  the  dark  pit ;  but  he  will  feel  no  pain  ; 

His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  heaven." 

More  might  have  followed — but  my  honoured  friend 
Broke  in  upon  the  speaker  with  a  frank 
And  cordial  greeting. — Vivid  was  the  light 
That  flashed  and  sparkled  from  the  other's  eyes  ; 
He  was  all  fire  :  the  sickness  from  his  face 
Passed  like  a  fancy  that  is  swept  away  ; 
Hands  joined  he  with  his  visitant,— a  grasp, 
An  eager  grasp  ;  and,  many  moments'  space, 
When  the  first  glow  of  pleasure  was  no  more, 
And  much  of  what  had  vanished  was  returned, 
An  amicable  smile  retained  the  life 
Which  it  had  unexpectedly  received, 
Upon  his  hollow  cheek.     "  How  kind  !"  he  said, 
"  Nor  could  your  coming  have  been  better  timed  ; 
For  this,  you  see,  is  in  our  narrow  world 
A  day  of  sorrow.     I  have  here  a  charge  " — 
And,  speaking  thus,  he  patted  tenderly 
The  sun-burnt  forehead  of  the  weeping  child — 
"  A  little  mourner,  whom  it  is  my  task 
To  comfort  ; — but  how  came  ye  ? — if  yon  track 
(Which  doth  at  once  befriend  us  and  betray) 
Conducted  hither  your  most  welcome  feet, 
You  could  not  miss  the  funeral  train— they  yet 
Have  scarcely  disappeared."     "  This  blooming  child," 
Said  the  old  man,  "  is  of  an  age  to  weep 
At  any  grave  or  solemn  spectacle, 
Inly  distressed,  or  overpowered  with  awe, 
He  knows  not  why  ; — but  he,  perchance,  this  day, 
Is  shedding  orphan's  tears  ;  and  you  yourself 
Must  have  sustained  a  loss." — "The  hand  of  death," 
He  answered,  ' '  has  been  here  ;  but  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  more  lightly,  if  it  had  not  fallen 
Upon  myself." — The  other  left  these  words 
Unnoticed,  thus  continuing. — 

"  From  yon  crag, 
Down  whose  steep  sides  we  dropped  into  the  vale, 
We  heard  the  hymn  they  sang — a  solemn  sound 
Heard  any  where,  but  m  a  place  like  this 
'Tis  more  than  human  !     Many  precious  rites 


THE  EXCURSION.  305 

And  customs  of  our  rural  ancestry 

Are  gone,  or  stealing  from  us  ;  this,  I  hope, 

Will  last  for  ever.     Often  have  I  stopped, 

So  much  I  felt  the  awfulness  of  life, 

In  that  one  moment  when  the  corse  is  lifted 

Jn  silence,  with  a  hush  of  decency, 

Then  from  the  threshold  moves  with  song  of  pe.ica, 

And  confidential  yearnings,  to  its  home, 

Its  final  home  in  earth.     What  traveller — who — 

(How  far  soe'er  a  stranger)  does  not  own 

The  bond  of  brotherhood,  when  he  sees  them  go, 

A  mute  procession  on  the  houseless  road  ; 

Or  passing  by  some  single  tenement 

Or  clustered  dwellings,  where  again  they  raise 

The  monitory  voice  ?     But  most  of  all 

It  touches,  it  confirms,  and  elevates, 

Then,  when  the  body,  soon  to  be  consigned 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  bequeathed  to  dust, 

Is  raised  from  the  church  aisle,  and  forward  borne 

Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  next  in  love, 

The  nearest  in  affection  or  in  blood  ; 

Yea,  by  the  very  mourners  who  had  knek 

Beside  the  coffin,  resting  on  its  lid 

In  silent  griel  their  unuplifted  heads, 

And  heard  meanwhile  the  Psalmist's  mournful  plaint, 

And  that  most  awful  scripture  which  declares 

We  shall  not  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed  ! 

Have  I  not  seen  ? — Ye  likewise  may  have  seen — 

Son,  husband,  brothers — brothers  side  by  side, 

And  son  and  father  also  side  by  side, 

Rise  from  that  posture  : — and  in  concert  move, 

On  the  green  turf  following  the  vested  priest, 

Four  dear  supporters  of  one  senseless  weight, 

From  which  they  do  not  shrink,  and  under  which 

They  faint  not,  but  advance  towards  the  grave 

Step  after  step — together,  with  their  firm 

Unhidden  faces  ;  he  that  suffers  most 

He  outwardly,  and  inwardly  perhaps 

The  most  serene,  with  most  undaunted  eye  ! 

Oh  I  blest  are  they  who  live  and  die  like  these. 

Loved  with  such  love,  and  with  such  sorrow  mourned  '" 

"  That  poor  man  taken  hence  to-day,"  replied 
The  Solitary,  with  a  faint  sarcastic  smile 
Which  did  not  please  me,  "  must  be  deemed,  I  fear. 
Of  the  unblest ;  for  he  will  surely  sink 
Into  his  mother  earth  without  such  pomp 
Of  grief,  depart  without  occasion  given 
By  aim  for  such  array  of  fortitude. 
Full  seventy  winters  hath  he  lived,  and  mark  ! 
This  simple  child  will  mourn  his  one  short  hour, 
And  I  shall  miss  him  ;  scanty  tribute  !  yet, 
This  wanting,  he  would  leave  the  sight  of  men, 
If  love  were  his  sole  claim  upon  their  care, 
Like  a  ripe  date  which  in  the  desert  falls 
Without  a  hand  to  gather  it."    At  this 
I  interposed,  though  loth  to  speak,  and  said, 
"  Can  it  be  thus  among  so  small  a  band 


866  TEE  EXCURSION. 

As  ye  must  needs  be  here  ?  in  such  a  place 
I  would  not  willingly,  methinks,  lose  sight 
Of  a  departing  cloud." — "  'Twas  not  for  love  "— 
Answered  the  sick  man  with  a  careless  voice — 
"  That  I  came  hither  ;  neither  have  I  found 
Among  associates  who  have  power  of  speech, 
Nor  in  such  other  converse  as  is  here, 
Temptation  so  prevailing  as  to  change 
That  mood,  or  undermine  my  first  resolve." — 
Then,  speaking  in  like  careless  sort,  he  said 
To  my  benign  companion,  —  *'  Pity  'tis 
That  fortune  did  not  guide  you  to  this  house 
A  few  days  earlier  ;  then  you  would  have  seen 
What  stuff  the  dwellers  in  a  solitude, 
That  seems  by  rature  hollowed  out  to  be 
The  seat  and  bosom  of  pure  innocence, 
Are  made  of;  an  ungracious  matter  this  ! 
Which  for  truth's  sake,  yet  in  remembrance  too 
Of  past  discussions  with  this  zealous  friend 
And  advocate  of  humble  life,  I  now 
Will  force  upon  his  notice  ;  undeterred 
By  the  example  of  his  own  pure  course,    , 
And  that  respect  and  deference  which  a  soul 
May  fairly  claim,  by  niggard  age  enriched 
In  what  she  values  most — the  love  of  God 
And  his  frail  creature  man  ; — but  ye  shall  hear. 
I  talk — and  ye  are  standing  in  the  sun 
Without  refreshment !" 

Saying  this,  he  led 
Towards  the  cottage  ; — homely  was  the  spot ; 
And  to  my  feeling,  ere  we  reached  the  door, 
Had  almost  a  forbidding  nakedness  ; 
Less  fair,  I  grant,  even  painfully  less  fair, 
Than  it  appeared  when  from  the  beetling  rock 
We  had  looked  down  upon  it.     All  within, 
As  left  by  the  departed  company, 
Was  silent  ;  and  the  solitary  clock 
Ticked,  as  I  thought,  './ith  melancholy  sound. — 
Following  our  guide,  we  clomb  the  cottage  stairs 
And  reached  a  small  apartment  dark  and  low, 
Which  was  no  sooner  entered,  than  our  host 
Said  gaily,  "  This  is  my  domain,  my  cell, 
My  hermitage,  my  cabin, — what  you  will — 
I  love  it  better  than  a  snail  his  house. 
But  now  ye  shall  be  feasted  with  our  best." 
So,  with  more  ardour  than  an  unripe  girl 
Left  one  day  mistress  of  her  mother's  stores, 
He  went  about  his  hospitable  task. 
My  eyes  were  busy,  and  my  thoughts  no  less, 
And  pleased  I  looked  upon  my  gray-haired  friend 
As  if  to  thank  him  ;  he  returned  that  look, 
Cheered  plainly,  and  yet  serious.     What  a  wreck 
Had  we  around  us  !  scattered  was  the  floor, 
And,  in  like  sort,  chair,  window-seat,  and  shelf, 
With  books,  maps,  fossils,  withered  plants  and  flowers, 
And  tufts  of  mountain  moss  ;  mechanic  tools 
Lay  intermixed  with  scraps  of  paper, — some 
Scribbled  with  verse  :  a  broken  ansrling-rod 


77777  EXCURSION.  367 

And  shattered  telescope,  together  linked 

By  cobwebs,  stood  within  a  dusty  nook  ; 

And  instruments  of  music,  some  half-made, 

Some  in  disgrace,  hung  dangling  from  the  walls. 

But  speedily  the  promise  was  fulfilled  ; 

A  feast  before  us,  and  a  courteous  host 

Inviting  us  in  glee  to  sit  and  eat. 

A  napkin,  white  as  foam  of  that  rough  brook 

By  which  it  had  been  bleached,  o'erspread  the  board  : 

And  was  itself  half-covered  with  a  load 

Of  dainties, — oaten  bread,  curd,  cheese,  and  cream, 

And  cakes  of  butter  curiously  embossed, 

Butter  that  had  imbibed  a  golden  tinge 

From  meadow  flowers,  hue  delicate  as  theirs 

Faintly  reflected  in  a  lingering  stream  ; 

Nor  lacked,  for  more  delight  on  that  warm  day, 

Our  table,  small  parade  of  garden  fruits, 

And  whortle-berries  from  the  mountain  side. 

The  child,  who  long  ere  this  had  stilled  his  sobs, 

Was  now  a  help  to  his  late  comforter, 

And  moved  a  willing  page,  as  he  was  bid, 

Ministering  to  our  need. 

In  genial  mood, 
While  at  our  pastoral  banquet  thus  we  sate 
Fronting  the  window  of  that  little  cell, 
I  could  not,  ever  and  anon,  forbear 
To  glance  an  upward  look  on  two  huge  peaks, 
That  from  some  other  vale  peered  into  this. 
"  Those  lusty  twins,"  exclaimed  our  host,  "if  here 
It  were  your  lot  to  dwell,  would  soon  become 
Your  prized  companions. — Many  are  the  notes 
Which,  in  his  tuneful  course,  the  wind  draws  forth 
From  rocks,  woods,  caverns,  heaths,  and  dashing  shores  ; 
And  well  those  lofty  brethren  bear  their  part 
In  the  wild  concert — chiefly  when  the  storm 
Rides  high  ;  then  all  the  upper  air  they  fill 
With  roaring  sound,  that  ceases  not  to  flow, 
Like  smoke,  along  the  level  of  the  blast, 
In  mighty  current ;  theirs,  too,  is  the  song 
Of  stream  and  headlong  flood  that  seldom  fails  ; 
And,  in  the  grim  and  breathless  hour  of  noon, 
Methinks  that  I  have  heard  them  echo  back 
The  thunder's  greeting  : — nor  have  nature's  laws 
Left  them  ungifted  with  a  power  to  yield 
Music  of  finer  tone  ;  a  harmony, 
So  do  I  call  it ;  though  it  be  the  hand 
Of  silence,  though  there  be  no  voice  ; — the  clouds, 
The  mist,  the  shadows,  light  of  golden  suns, 
Motions  of  moonlight,  all  come  hither — touch, 
And  have  an  answer — thither  come,  and  shape 
A  language  not  unwelcome  to  sick  hearts 
And  idle  spirits  : — there  the  sun  himself, 
At  the  calm  close  of  summer's  longest  day, 
Rests  his  substantial  orb  ; — between  those  heights 
And  on  the  top  of  either  pinnacle, 
More  keenly  than  elsewhere  in  night's  blue  vault, 
Sparkle  the  stars,  as  of  their  station  proud. 
Thoughts  are  not  busier  in  the  mind  of  man 


368  THE  EXCURSION. 

Than  the  mute  agents  stirring  there  :— alone 
Here  do  I  sit  and  watch." 

A  fall  of  voice, 
Regretted  like  the  nightingale's  last  note, 
Had  scarcely  closed  this  high-wrought  rhapsody, 
Ere  with  inviting  smile  the  wanderer  said, 
' '  Now  for  the  tale  with  which  you  threatened  us  )" 
"  In  truth  the  threat  escaped  me  unawares  ; 
Should  the  tale  tire  you,  let  this  challenge  stand 
For  my  excuse.     Dissevered  from  mankind, 
As  to  your  eyes  and  thoughts  we  must  have  seemed 
When  ye  looked  down  upon  us  from  the  crag, 
Islanders  of  a  stormy  mountain  sea, 
We  are  not  so  ; — perpetually  we  touch 
Upon  the  vulgar  ordinance  of  the  world, 
And,  he,  whom  this  our  cottage  hath  to-day 
Relinquished,  lived  dependent  for  his  bread 
Upon  the  laws  of  public  charity. 
The  housewife,  tempted  by  such  slender  gains 
As  might  from  that  occasion  be  distilled, 
Opened,  as  she  before  had  done  for  me, 
Her  doors  to  admit  this  homeless  pensioner ; 
The  portion  gave  of  coarse  but  wholesome  fare 
Which  appetite  required — a  blind  dull  nook 
Such  as  she  had — the  kennel  of  his  rest ! 
This,  in  itself  not  ill,  would  yet  have  been 
111  borne  in  earlier  life,  but  his  was  now 
The  still  contentedness  of  seventy  years. 
Calm  did  he  sit  beneath  the  wide-spread  tree 
Of  his  old  age  ;  and  yet  less  calm  and  meek, 
Winningly  meek  or  venerably  calm, 
Than  slow  and  torpid  ;  paying  in  this  wise 
A  penalty,  if  penalty  it  were, 
For  spendthrift  feats,  excesses  of  his  prime. 
I  loved  the  old  man,  for  I  pitied  him  ! 
A  task  it  was,  I  own,  to  hold  discourse 
With  one  so  slow  in  gathering  up  his  thoughts, 
But  he  was  a  cheap  pleasure  to  my  eyes  ; 
Mild,  inoffensive,  ready  in  his  way, 
And  helpful  to  his  utmost  power  :  and  there 
Our  housewife  knew  full  well  what  she  possessed ! 
He  was  her  vassal  of  all  labour,  tilled 
Her  garden,  from  the  pasture  fetched  her  kine  ; 
And,  one  among  the  orderly  array 
Of  hay-makers,  beneath  the  burning  sun 
Maintained  his  place ;  or  needfully  pursued 
His  course,  on  errands  bound,  to  other  vales, 
Leading  sometimes  an  inexperienced  child, 
Too  young  for  any  profitable  task. 
So  moved  he  like  a  shadow  that  performed 
Substantial  service.     Mark  me  now,  and  learn 
For  what  reward  1  The  moon  her  monthly  round 
Hath  not  completed  since  our  dame,  the  queen 
Of  this  one  cottage  and  this  lonely  dale, 
Into  my  little  sanctuary  rushed — 
Voice  to  a  rueful  treble  humanized, 
And  features  in  deplorable  dismay. 
1  treat  the  matter  lighty,  but,  alas ! 


THE  EXCURSION.  3G9 

If  is  most  serious  :  persevering  rain 
Had  fallen  in  torrents;  all  the  mountain  tops 
Were  hidden,  and  black  vapours  coursed  their  side1; ; 
This  had  I  seen  and  saw  ;  but,  till  she  spake, 
Was  wholly  ignorant  that  my  ancient  friend, 
Who  at  her  bidding,  early  and  alone, 
Had  clomb  aloft  to  delve  the  moorland  turf 
For  winter  fuel,  to  his  noontide  meal 
Returned  not,  and  now,  haply  on  (he  heights 
Lay  at  the  mercy  of  this  raging  storm. 
"  Inhuman!" — said  I,  "  was  an  old  man's  life 
Not  worth  the  trouble  of  a  thought  ?— alas  ! 
This  notice  comes  too  late."     With  joy  I  saw 
Her  husband  enter — from  a  distant  vale. 
We  sallied  forth  together  ;  found  the  tools 
Which  the  neglected  veteran  had  dropped, 
But  through  all  quarters  looked  for  him  in  vain. 
We  shouted — but  no  answer  !  Darkness  fell 
Without  remission  of  the  blast  or  shower, 
And  fears  for  our  own  safety  drove  us  home. 
I,  who  weep  little,  did,  I  will  confess, 
The  moment  I  was  seated  here  alone, 
Honour  my  little  cell  with  some  few  tears 
Which  anger  and  resentment  could  not  dry. 
All  night  the  storm  endured  ;  and,  soon  as  help 
Had  been  collected  from  the  neighbouring  vale, 
With  morning  we  renewed  our  quest  :  the  wind 
Was  fallen,  the  rain  abated,  but  the  hills 
Lay  shrouded  in  impenetrable  mist  ; 
And  long  and  hopelessly  we  sought  in  vain. 
Till,  chancing  on  that  lofty  ridge  to  pass 
A  heap  of  ruin,  almost  without  walls, 
And  wholly  without  roof  (the  bleached  remains 
Of  a  small  chapel,  where,  in  ancient  time, 
The  peasants  of  these  lonely  valleys  used 
To  meet  for  worship  on  that  central  height) — 
We  there  espied  the  object  of  our  search, 
Lying  full  three  parts  buried  among  tufts 
Of  heath-plant,  under  and  above  him  strewn, 
To  baffle,  as  he  might,  the  watery  storm  : 
And  there  we  found  him  breathing  peaceably, 
Snug  as  a  child  that  hides  itself  in  sport 
'Mid  a  green  hay-cock  in  a  sunny  field. 
We  spake — he  made  reply,  but  would  not  stir 
At  our  entreaty  ;  less  from  want  of  power 
Than  apprehension  and  bewildering  thoughts. 
So  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground, 
And  with  their  freight  the  shepherds  homeward  moved 
Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following — when  a  step, 
A  single  step  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  opened  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul  1 
The  appearance  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 
Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end  ' 


370  THE  EXCURSION. 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires, 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright 

In  avenues  disposed  :  there  towers  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars — illumination  ot  all  gems! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  ol  the  storm 

Now  pacified  ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 

Oh,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald  turf, 

Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky. 

Confused,  commingled;  mutually  inflamed, 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 

Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 

Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name, 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous,  enwrapped. 

Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appeared 

Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 

Beneath  a  shining  canopy  of  state 

Stood  fixed  ;  and  fixed  resemblances  were  seen 

To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision— forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power, 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

Below  me  was  the  earth  ;  this  little  vale 

Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ;  'twas  visible — 

1  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  this  was  there. 

That  which  I  saw  was  the  revealed  abodr 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude  •  my  heart 

Swelled  in  my  breast. — '  I  have  been  dead,'  I  cried, 

'And  now  I  live  1  Oh  !  wherefore  do  I  live?' 

And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more  !— 

But  I  forget  our  charge,  as  utterly 

I  then  forgot  him  :— there  1  stood  and  gazed  ; 

The  apparition  faded  not  away, 

And  I  descended. —Having  reached  the  house, 

I  found  its  rescued  inmate  safely  lodged, 

And  in  serene  possession  of  himself, 

Beside  a  genial  fire  ,  that  seemed  to  spread 

A  gleam  of  comfort  o  er  his  pallid  face. 

Great  show  of  joy  the  housewife  made,  and  truly 

Was  glad  to  find  her  conscience  set  at  ease  ; 

And  not  less  glad,  for  sake  of  her  good  name, 

That  the  poor  sufferer  had  escaped  with  hie. 

But,  though  he  seemed  a'  first  to  have  received 

No  harm,  and  uncomplaining  as  before 

Went  through  his  usual  (asks  a  silent  change 

Soon  showed  itself;  he  lingered  three  short  weeks  ; 

And  from  the  cottage  hath  been  borne  to-day. 

"  So  ends  my  dolorous  tale,  and  glad  I  am 


TEE  EXCURSION.  9W 

That  it  is  ended."    At  these  words  he  turned — 

And,  with  blithe  air  of  open  fellowship, 

Rrought  from  the  cupboard  wine  and  stouter  cheer, 

Like  one  who  would  be  merry.     Seeing  this. 

My  gray-haired  friend  said  courteously — "  ivay,  nay, 

You  have  regaled  us  as  a  hermit  ought ; 

Now  let  us  forth  into  the  sun  ! " — Our  host 

Rose,  though  reluctantly,  and  forth  we  went. 


BOOK  TIL 

ARGUMENT. 

Images  in  the  valley— Another  recess  in  it  entered  and  described— Wanderer's  sensations— Soli- 
tary's  excited  by  the  same  objects — Contrast  between  these— Despondency  of  the  Solitary 
gently  reproved— Conversation  exhibiting  the  Solitary's  past  and  present  opinions  and  feeling* 
till  he  enters  upon  his  own  history  at  length — His  domestic  felicity — Afflictions — Dejection — 
Roused  by  the  French  Revolution — Disappointment  and  disgust — Voyage  to  America— Dis- 
appointment and  disgust  pursue  him — His  return — His  languor  and  depression  of  mind,  from 
want  of  faith  in  the  great  truths  of  religion,  and  want  of  confidence  in  the  virtue  of  mankind. 

DESPONDENCY. 

A  humming  bee — a  little  tinkling  rill — 

A  pair  of  falcons  wheeling  on  the  wing, 

In  clamorous  agitation,  round  the  crest 

Of  a  tall  rock,  their  airy  citadel — 

By  each  and  all  of  these  the  pensive  ear 

Was  greeted  in  the  silence  that  ensued, 

When  through  the  cottage  threshold  we  had  passed, 

And,  deep  within  that  lonesome  valley,  stood 

Once  more,  beneath  the  concave  of  a  blue 

And  cloudless  sky. — Anon  !  exclaimed  our  host, 

Triumphantly  dispersing  with  the  taunt 

The  shade  of  discontent  which  on  his  brow 

Had  gathered, — "  Ye  have  left  my  cell, — but  see 

How  nature  hems  you  in  with  friendly  arms  ! 

And  by  her  help  ye  are  my  prisoners  still. 

But  which  way  shall  I  lead  you  ? — how  contrive, 

In  spot  so  parsimoniously  endowed, 

That  the  brief  hours,  which  yet  remain,  may  reap 

Some  recompense  of  knowledge  or  delight  ?" 

So  saying,  round  he  looked  as  if  perplexed  ; 

And,  to  remove  those  doubts,  my  gray-haired  friend 

Said — "  Shall  we  take  this  pathway  for  our  guide  r — 

Upward  it  winds,  as  if,  in  summer  heats, 

Its  line  had  first  been  fashioned  by  the  flock 

A  place  of  refuge  seeking  at  the  root 

Of  yon  black  yew-tree  ;  whose  protruded  boughs 

Darken  the  silver  bosom  of  the  crag, 

From  which  she  draws  her  meagre  sustenance. 

There  in  commodious  shelter  may  we  rest, 

Or  let  us  trace  this  streamlet  to  its  source  ; 

Feebly  it  tinkles  with  an  earthy  sound, 

And  a  few  steps  may  bring  us  to  the  spot 

Where,  haply,  crowned  with  flowerets  snd  green  herbs, 


372  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  mountain  infant  to  the  sun  comes  forth, 
Like  human  life  from  darkness." — A  quick  turn 
Through  a  strait  passage  of  encumbered  ground 
Proved  that  such  hope  was  vain  : — for  now  we  stood 
Shut  out  from  prospect  of  the  open  vale, 
And  saw  the  water  that  composed  this  rill, 
Descending,  disembodied  and  diffused 
O'er  the  smooth  surface  of  an  ample  crag, 
Lofty  and  steep,  and  naked  as  a  tower, 
All  further  progress  here  was  barred  ; — And  who, 
Thought  I,  if  master  of  a  vacant  hour, 
Here  would  not  linger,  willingly  detained  ? 
Whether  to  such  wild  objects  he  were  led 
When  copious  rains  have  magnified  the  stream 
Into  a  loud  and  white-robed  waterfall, 
Or  introduced  at  this  more  quiet  time. 

Upon  a  semicirque  of  turf-clad  ground, 
The  hidden  nook  discovered  to  our  view 
A  mass  of  rock  resembling,  as  it  lay 
Right  at  the  foot  of  that  moist  precipice, 
A  stranded  ship,  with  keel  upturned, — that  rests 
Fearless  of  winds  and  waves.     Three  several  stones 
Stood  near,  of  smaller  size,  and  not  unlike 
To  monumental  pillars  :  and  from  these 
Some  little  space  disjoined,  a  pair  were  seen, 
That  with  united  shoulders  bore  aloft 
A  fragment,  like  an  altar,  flat  and  smooth  : 
Barren  the  table,  yet  thereon  appeared 
A  tall  and  shining  holly,  that  had  found 
A  hospitable  chink,  and  stood  upright, 
As  if  inserted  by  some  human  hand 
In  mockery,  to  wither  in  the  sun, 
Or  lay  its  beauty  flat  before  a  breeze, 
The  first  that  entered.     But  no  breeze  did  now 
Find  entrance  ;  high,  or  low,  appeared  no  trace 
Of  motion,  save  the  water  that  descended, 
Diffused  adown  that  barrier  of  steep  rock, 
And  softly  creeping,  like  a  breath  of  air, 
Such  as  is  sometimes  seen,  and  hardly  seen, 
To  brush  the  still  breast  of  a  crystal  lake. 

"Behold  a  cabinet  for  sages  built, 
Which  kings  might  envy  !  " — Praise  to  this  effect 
Broke  from  the  happy  old  man's  reverend  lip  ; 
Who  to  the  Solitary  turned,  and  said, 
"  In  sooth,  with  love's  familiar  privilege, 
You  have  decried  the  wealth  which  is  your  own, 
Among  these  rocks  and  stones,  methinks,  I  see 
More  than  the  heedless  impress  that  belongs 
To  lonely  nature's  casual  work  :  they  bear 
A  semblance  strange  of  power  intelligent, 
And  of  design  not  wholly  worn  away. 
Boldest  of  plants  that  ever  faced  the  wind, 
How  gracefully  that  slender  shrub  looks  forth 
From  its  fantastic  birthplace  !    And  I  own, 
Some  shadowy  intimations  haunt  me  here. 
That  in  these  shows  a  chronicle  survive0 


TEE  EXCURSION.  ?73 

Of  purposes  akin  to  those  of  man. 

But  wrought  with  mightier  arm  than  now  prevails. 

Voiceless  the  stream  descends  into  the  gulf 

With  timid  lapse  ;— and  lo!  while  in  this  strait 

I  stand — the  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 

Is  heaven's  profoundest  azure  ;  no  domain 

For  fickle,  short-lived  clouds  to  occupy, 

Or  to  pass  through,  but  rather  an  abyss 

In  which  the  everlasting  stars  abide  ; 

And  whose  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might  tempt 

The  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  by  day. 

Hail  contemplation  !  from  the  stately  towers, 

Reared  by  the  industrious  hand  of  human  art 

To  lift  thee  high  above  the  misty  air, 

And  turbulence  of  murmuring  cities  vast ; 

From  academic  groves,  that  have  for  thee 

Been  planted,  hither  come  and  find  a  lodge 

To  which  thou  mayst  resort  for  holier  peace, — 

From  whose  calm  centre  thou,  through  height  or  ueptb 

Mayst  penetrate,  wherever  truth  shall  lead  ; 

Measuring  through  all  degrees,  until  the  scale 

Of  time  and  conscious  nature  disappear, 

Lost  in  unsearchable  eternity  t " 

A  pause  ensued ;  and  with  minuter  care 
We  scanned  the  various  features  of  the  scene : 
And  soon  the  tenant  o<"  that  lonely  vale 
With  courteous  voice  thus  spake — 

"  I  should  have  grieved 
Hereafter,  not  escaping  self-reproach, 
If  from  my  poor  retirement  ye  had  gone 
Leaving  this  nook  unvisited  :  but,  in  sooth, 
Your  unexpected  presence  has  so  roused 
My  spirits,  that  they  were  bent  on  enterprise  ; 
And,  like  an  ardent  hunter,  I  forgot, 
Or,  shall  I  say? — disdained,  the  game  that  lurks 
At  my  own  door.     The  shapes  before  our  eyes, 
And  their  arrangement,  doubtless  must  be  deemed 
The  sport  of  nature,  aided  by  blind  chance, 
Rudely  to  mock  the  works  of  toiling  man. 
And  hence,  this  upright  shaft  of  unhewn  stone, 
From  fancy,  willing  to  set  off  her  stores 
By  sounding  titles,  hath  acquired  the  name 
Of  Pompey's  pillar  ;  that  I  gravely  style 
My  Theban  obelisk  ;  and,  there,  behold 
A  Druid  cromlech  ! — thus  I  entertain 
The  antiquarian  humour,  and  am  pleased 
To  skim  along  the  surfaces  of  things, 
Beguiling  harmlessly  the  listless  hours. 
But,  if  the  spirit  be  oppressed  by  sense 
Of  instability,  revolt,  decay, 
And  change,  and  emptiness,  these  freaks  of  naturt: 
And  her  blind  helper  chance,  do  then  suffice 
To  quicken,  and  to  aggravate — to  feed 
Pity  and  scorn,  and  melancholy  pride, 
Not  less  than  that  huge  pile  (from  eome  abyss 
Of  mortal  power  unquestionably  sprung) 
Whose  hoary  diadem  of  pendant  rocks 


3?4  THE  EXCURSION. 

Confines  the  shrill-voiced  whirlwind,  round  and  round 

Eddying  within  its  vast  circumference, 

On  Sarum's  naked  plain  ;— than  pyramid 

Of  Egypt,  unsubverted,  undissolved  ; 

Or  Syria's  marble  ruins  towering  high 

Above  the  sandy  desert,  in  the  light 

Of  sun  or  moon. — Forgive  me,  if  I  say 

That  an  appearance,  which  hath  raised  your  minds 

To  an  exalted  pitch,  (the  self-same  cause 

Different  effect  producing)  is  for  me 

Fraught  rather  with  depression  than  delight, 

Though  shame  it  were,  could  I  not  look  around, 

By  the  reflection  of  your  pleasure,  pleased. 

Yet  happier,  in  my  judgment,  even  than  you 

With  your  bright  transports  fairly  may  be  deemed, 

The  wandering  herbalist, — who,  clear  alike 

From  vain,  and,  that  worse  evil,  vexing  thoughts, 

Casts,  if  he  ever  chance  to  enter  here, 

Upon  these  uncouth  forms  a  slight  regard 

Of  transitory  interest,  and  peeps  round 

For  some  rare  floweret  of  the  hills,  or  plant 

Of  craggy  fountain  ;  what  he  hopes  for  wins, 

Or  learns,  at  least,  that  'tis  not  to  be  won  : 

Then,  keen  and  eager,  as  a  fine-nosed  hound 

By  soul-engrossing  instinct  driven  along 

Through  wood  or  open  field,  the  harmless  man 

Departs,  intent  upon  his  onward  quest  1 

Nor  is  that  fellow-wanderer,  so  deem  I, 

Less  to  be  envied,  (you  may  trace  him  oft 

By  scars  which  his  activity  has  left 

Beside  our  roads  and  pathways,  though,  thank  Heaven  I 

This  covert  nook  reports  not  of  hL- hand,) 

He,  who  with  pocket  hammer  smites  the  edge 

Of  luckless  rock  or  prominent  stone,  disguised 

In  weather-stains,  or  crusted  o'er  by  nature 

With  her  first  growths — detaching  by  the  stroke 

A  chip,  or  splinter — to  resolve  his  doubts  ; 

And,  with  that  ready  answer  satisfied, 

The  substance  classes  by  some  barbarous  name, 

And  hurries  on  ;  or  from  the  fragments  picks 

His  specimen,  if  but  haply  interveined 

With  sparkling  mineral,  or  should  crystal  cube 

Lurk  in  its  cells — and  thinks  himself  enriched, 

Wealthier,  and  doubtless  wiser,  than  before  1 

Intrusted  safely — each  to  his  pursuit 

Earnest  alike,  let  both  from  hill  to  hill 

Range  ;  if  it  please  them,  speed  from  clime  to  clime  ; 

The  mind  is  full — no  pain  is  in  their  sport." 

"Then,"  said  I,  interposing  ;  "one  is  near, 
Who  cannot  but  possess  in  your  esteem 
Place  worthier  still  of  envy.     May  I  name, 
Without  offence,  that  fair-faced  cottage-boy  ? 
Dame  nature's  pupil  of  the  lowest  form, 
Youngest  apprentice  in  the  school  of  art ! 
Him,  as  we  entered  from  the  open  glen, 
You  might  have  noticed,  busily  engaged, 
Heart,  soul,  and  hands, — in  mending  the  defects 


THE  EXCURSION.  375 

Left  in  the  fabric  of  the  leaky  darn, 

Raised  for  enabling  this  penurious  stream 

To  turn  a  slender  mill  (that  new-made  plaything) 

For  his  delight — the  happiest  he  of  all !  " 

"  Far  happiest,'  answered  the  desponding  man, 
"  If  such  as  now  he  is,  he  might  remain  ! 
Ah  !  what  avails  imagination  high 
Or  question  dcr;i?  what  profits  all  that  earth, 
Or  heaven's  blue  vault,  is  suffered  to  put  forth 
Of  impulse  or  allurement,  for  the  soul 
To  quit  the  beaten  track  of  life,  and  soar 
Far  as  she  finds  a  yielding  element 
In  past  or  future  ;  far  as  she  can  go 
Through  time  or  space  ;  if  neither  in  the  one, 
Nor  in  the  other  region,  nor  in  aught 
That  fancy,  dreaming  o'er  the  map  of  things, 
Hath  placed  beyond  these  penetrable  bounds, 
Words  of  assurance  can  be  heard  ;  if  nowhere 
A  habitation  for  consummate  good, 
Nor  for  progressive  virtue,  by  the  search 
Can  be  attained,  a  better  sanctuary 
From  doubt  and  sorrow,  than  the  senseless  grave  ? " 

"  Is  this,"  the  gray-haired  wanderer  mildly  said, 
"  The  voice,  which  we  so  lately  overheard, 
To  that  same  child,  addressing  tenderly 
The  consolations  of  a  hopeful  mind  ? 
'  His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  heaven.' 
These  were  your  words  ;  and,  verily,  methinks 
Wisdom  is  oft-times  nearer  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar." 

The  other,  not  displeased, 
Promptly  replied, — "  My  notion  is  the  same. 
And  I,  without  reluctance,  could  decline 
All  act  of  inquisition  whence  we  rise, 
And  what,  when  breath  had  ceased,  we  may  become. 
Here  are  we,  in  a  bright  and  breathing  world — 
Our  origin,  what  matters  it?     In  lack 
Of  worthier  explanation,  say  at  once 
With  the  American  (a  thought  which  suits 
The  place  where  now  we  stand)  that  certain  men 
Leap  out  together  from  a  rocky  cave ; 
And  these  were  the  first  parents  of  mankind  : 
O',  if  a  different  image  be  recalled 
By  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  jocund  voice 
Of  insects — chirping  out  their  careless  lives 
On  these  soft  beds  of  thyme-besprinkled  turf, 
Choose,  with  the  gay  Athenian,  a  conceit 
As  sound — blithe  race  !  whose  mantles  were  bedecked 
With  golden  grasshoppers,  in  sign  that  they 
Had  sprung,  like  those  bright  creatures,  from  the  soil 
Whereon  their  endless  generations  dwelt. 
But  stop  ! — these  theoretic  fancies  jar 
On  serious  minds  ;  then,  as  the  Hindoos  draw 
Their  holy  Ganges  from  a  skyey  fount, 
Even  so  deduce  the  stream  of  human  life 
From  seats  of  power  divine  ;  and  hope,  or  trust, 

2  D 


37S  THE  EXCURSION. 

That  our  existence  winds  her  stately  course 
Beneath  the  sun,  like  Ganges,  to  make  part 
Of  a  living  ocean  ;  or,  to  sink  ingulfed 
Like  Niger,  in  impenetrable  sands 
And  utter  darkness  :  thought  which  may  be  faced, 
Though  comfortless  ! — Not  of  myself  I  speak  ; 
Such  acquiescence  neither  doth  imply, 
In  me,  a  meekly-bending  spirit  soothed 
By  natural  piety  ;  nor  a  lofty  mind, 
By  philosophic  discipline  prepared 
For  calm  subjection  to  acknowledged  law  ; 
Pleased  to  have  been,  contented  not  to  be. 
.Such  palms  I  boast  not ; — no  !  to  me,  who  find, 
,'.  Reviewing  my  past  way,  much  to  condemn, 
Little  to  praise,  and  nothing  to  regret, 
(Save  some  remembrances  of  dream-like  joys 
That  scarcely  seem  to  have  belonged  to  me,) 
If  I  must  take  my  choice  between  the  pair 
That  rule  alternately  the  weary  hours, 
Night  is  than  day  more  acceptable ; — sleep 
Doth,  in  my  estimate  of  good,  appear 
A  better  state  than  waking  ;  death  than  sleep  : 
Feelingly  sweet  is  stillness  after  storm, 
Though  under  covert  of  the  wormy  ground ! 

"  Yet  be  it  said,  in  justice  to  myself, 
That  in  more  genial  times,  when  I  was  free 
To  explore  the  destiny  of  human  kind, 
(Not  as  an  intellectual  game  pursued 
With  curious  subtilty,  from  wish  to  cheat 
Irksome  sensations  ;  but  by  love  of  truth 
Urged  on,  or  haply  by  intense  delight 
In  feeding  thought,  wherever  thought  could  feed,; 
I  did  not  rank  with  those  (too  dull  or  nice, 
For  to  my  judgment  such  they  then  appeared, 
Or  too  aspiring,  thankless  at  the  best) 
Who,  in  this  frame  of  human  life  perceive 
An  object  whereunto  their  souls  are  tied 
In  discontented  wedlock  ;  nor  did  e'er, 
From  me,  those  dark  impervious  shades,  that  hang 
Upon  the  region  whither  we  are  bound, 
Exclude  a  power  to  enjoy  the  vital  beams 
Of  present  sunshine.  —  Deities  that  float 
On  wings,  angelic  spirits,  I  could  muse 
O'er  what  from  eldest  time  we  have  been  told 
Of  your  bright  forms  and  glorious  faculties, 
And  with  the  imagination  be  content, 
Not  wishing  more  ;  repining  not  to  tread 
The  little  sinuous  path  of  earthly  care, 
By  flowers  embellished,  and  by  springs  refreshed. 
'  Blow  winds  of  autumn  !— let  your  chilling  breath 
Take  the  live  herbage  from  the  mead,  and  strip 
The  shady  forest  of  its  green  attire, — 
And  let  the  bursting  clouds  to  fury  rouse 
The  gentle  brooks  ! — Your  desolating  sway,' 
Thus  I  exclaimed,  '  no  sadness  sheds  on  me, 
And  no  disorder  in  your  rage  I  find. 
What  dignity,  what  beauty,  in  this  change 


THE  EXCURSION.  37> 

From  mild  to  angry,  and  from  sad  to  gay, 

Alternate  and  revolving  1     How  benign, 

How  rich  in  animation  and  delight, 

How  bountiful  these  elements— compared 

With  aught,  as  more  desirable  and  fair, 

Devised  by  fancy  for  the  golden  age  ; 

Or  the  perpetual  warbling  that  prevails 

In  Arcady,  beneath  unaltered  skies, 

Through  the  long  year  in  constant  quiet  bound, 

Night  hushed  as  night,  and  day  serene  as  day  !' 

But  why  this  tedious  record  ?— Age,  we  know, 

Is  garrulous  ;  and  solitude  is  apt 

To  anticipate  the  privilege  of  age. 

From  far  ye  come  ;  and  surely  with  a  hope 

Of  better  entertainment— let  us  hence  1" 

Loth  to  forsake  the  spot,  and  still  more  loth 
To  be  diverted  from  our  present  theme, 
I  said,  "My  thoughts  agreeing,  sir,  with  yours, 
Would  push  this  censure  farther  ;— for,  if  smiles 
Of  scornful  pity  be  the  just  reward 
Of  poesy,  thus  courteously  employed 
In  framing  models  to  improve  the  scheme 
Of  man's  existence,  and  recast  the  world, 
Why  should  not  grave  philosophy  be  styled, 
Herself,  a  dreamer  of  a  kindred  stock, 
A  dreamer  yet  more  spiritless  and  dull  ? 
Yes,  shall  the  fine  immunities  she  boasts 
Establish  sounder  titles  of  esteem 
For  her,  who  (all  too  timid  and  reserved 
For  onset,  for  resistance  too  inert, 
Too  weak  for  suffering,  and  for  hope  too  tame) 
Placed  among  flowery  gardens,  curtained  round 
With  world-excluding  groves,  the  brotherhood 
Of  soft  Epicureans,  taught— if  they 
The  ends  of  being  would  secure,  and  win 
The  crown  of  wisdom— to  yield  up  their  souls 
To  a  voluptuous  unconcern,  preferring 
Tranquillity  to  all  things.     Or  is  she," 
I  cried,  "  more  worthy  of  regard,  the  power, 
Who,  for  the  sake  of  sterner  quiet,  closed 
The  Stoic's  heart  against  the  vain  approach 
Of  admiration,  and  all  sense  of  joy  ?" 

His  countenance  gave  notice  that  my  zeal 
Accorded  little  with  his  present  mind  ; 
I  ceased,  and  he  resumed,— "Ah  !  gentle  sir, 
Slight,  if  yori  will,  the  means;  but  spare  to  slight 
The  end  of  those,  who  did,  by  system,  rank, 
As  the  prime  object  of  a  wise  man's  aim, 
Security  from  shock  of  accident, 
Release  from  fear  ;  and  cherished  peaceful  days 
For  their  own  sakes,  as  mortal  life's  chief  good, 
And  only  reasonable  felicity. 
What  motive  drew,  what  impulse,  I  would  ask, 
Through  a  long  course  of  later  ages,  drove 
The  hermit  to  his  cell  in  forest  wide  ; 
Or  what  detained  him,  till  his  closing  eyes 


378  THE  EXCURSION. 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  sun  and  stars, 

Fast  anchored  in  the  desert  ? — Not  alone 

Dread  of  the  persecuting  sword — remorse, 

Wrongs  unredressed,  or  insults  unavenged 

And  unavengeable,  defeated  pride, 

Prosperity  subverted,  maddening  want, 

Friendship  betrayed,  affection  unreturned, 

Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony  :  — 

Not  always  from  intolerable  pangs 

He  fled  ;  but,  compassed  round  by  pleasure,  sighed 

For  independent  happiness  ;  craving  peace, 

The  central  feeling  of  all  happiness, 

Not  as  a  refuge  from  distress  or  pain, 

A  breathing-time,  vacation,  or  a  truce, 

But  for  its  absolute  self ;  a  life  of  peace, 

Stability  without  regret  or  fear  ; 

That  hath  been,  is,  and  shall  be  evermore  ! 

Such  the  reward  he  sought ;  and  wore  out  life. 

There,  where  on  few  external  things  his  heart 

Was  set,  and  those  his  own  ;  or,  if  not  his, 

Subsisting  under  nature's  steadfast  law. 

"  What  other  yearning  was  the  master  tie 
Of  the  monastic  brotherhood  ;  upon  rock 
Aerial,  or  in  green  secluded  vale, 
One  after  one,  collected  from  afar, 
An  undissolving  fellowship  ! — What  but  this, 
The  universal  instinct  of  repose, 
The  longing  for  confirmed  tranquillity, 
Inward  and  outward  ;  humble,  yet  sublime  : — 
The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one  ; 
Earth  quiet  and  unchanged  ;  the  human  soul 
Consistent  in  self-rule  ;  and  heaven  revealed 
To  meditation,  in  that  quietness  ! 
Such  was  their  scheme  : — thrice  happy  he  who  gained 
The  end  proposed  !    And, — though  the  same  were  misse,' 
By  multitudes,  perhaps  obtained  by  none, — 
They,  for  the  attempt,  and  for  the  pains  employed, 
Do,  in  my  present  censure,  stand  redeemed 
From  the  unqualified  disdain,  that  once 
Would  have  been  cast  upon  them,  by  my  voice 
Delivering  its  decisions  from  the  seat 
Of  forward  youth  : — that  scruples  not  to  solve 
Doubts,  and  determine  questions,  by  the  rules 
Of  inexperienced  judgment,  ever  prone 
/  To  overweening  faith  ;  and  is  inflamed, 
By  courage,  to  demand  from  real  life 
The  test  of  act  and  suffering — to  provoke 
Hostility,  how  dreadful  when  it  comes, 
Whether  affliction  be  the  foe,  or  guilt ! 

"  A  child  of  earth,  I  rested,  in  that  stage 
Of  my  past  course  to  which  these  thoughts  advert, 
Upon  earth's  native  energies  ;  forgetting 
That  mine  was  a  condition  which  required 
Nor  energy,  nor  fortitude — a  calm 
Without  vicissitude  ;  which,  if  the  like 
Had  been  presented  to  my  view  elsewhere, 


TJIE  EXCURSION.  379 

I  might  have  even  been  tempted  to  despise. 
But  that  which  was  serene  was  also  bright; 
Enlivened  happiness,  with  joy  o'erflowing, 
With  joy,  and— oh  I  that  memory  should  survYve 
To  speak  the  word— with  rapture  !    Nature's  boon, 
Life's  genuine  inspiration,  happiness 
Above  what  rules  can  teach,  or  fancy  feign  ; 
Abused,  as  all  possessions  are  abused 
That  are  not  prized  according  to  their  worth. 
And  yet,  what  worth?  what  good  is  given  to  men, 
More  solid  than  the  gilded  clouds  of  heaven? 
What  joy  more  lasting  than  a  vernal  flower  ? 
None  I  'tis  the  general  plaint  of  human  kind 
In  solitude,  and  mutually  addressed 
From  each  to  all,  for  wisdom's  sake  : — This  truth 
The  priest  announces  from  his  holy  seat ; 
And,  crowned  with  garlands  in  the  summer  grove, 
The  poet  fits  it  to  his  pensive  lyre. 
Yet,  ere  that  final  resting-place  be  gained 
Sharp  contradictions  may  arise  by  doom 
Of  this  same  life,  compelling  us  to  grieve 
That  the  prosperities  of  love  and  joy 
Should  be  permitted,  oft-times,  to  endure 
So  long,  and  be  at  once  cast  down  for  ever. 
Oh  !  tremble  ye  to  whom  hath  been  assigned 
A  course  of  days  composing  happy  months, 
And  they  as  happy  years  ;  the  present  still 
So  like  the  past,  and  both  so  firm  a  pledge 
Of  a  congenial  future,  that  the  wheels 
Of  pleasure  move  without  the  aid  of  hope  : 
For  mutability  is  nature's  bane  ; 
'  And  slighted  hope  will  be  avenged  ;  and,  when 
Ye  need  her  favours,  ye  shall  find  her  not ; 
But,  in  her  stead— fear— doubt— and  agony  !" 

This  was  the  bitter  language  of  the  heart ; 
But,  while  he  spake,  look,  gesture,  tone  of  voice, 
Though  discomposed  and  vehement,  were  such 
As  skill  and  graceful  nature  might  suggest 
To  a  proficient  of  the  tragic  scene 
Standing  before  the  multitude,  beset 
With  dark  events.     Desirous  to  divert 
Or  stem  the  current  of  the  speaker's  thoughts, 
We  signified  a  wish  to  leave  that  place 
Of  stillness  and  close  privacy,  a  nook 
That  seemed  for  self-examination  made, 
Or,  for  confession,  in  the  sinner's  need, 
Hidden  from  all  men's  view.     To  our  attempt 
He  yielded  not  ;  but,  pointing  to  a  slope 
Of  mossy  turf  defended  from  the  sun, 
And,  on  that  couch  inviting  us  to  rest, 
Full  on  that  tender-hearted  man  he  turned 
A  serious  eye,  and  thus  his  speech  renewed. 

' '  You  never  saw,  your  eyes  did  never  look 
On  the  bright  form  of  her  whom  once  I  loved  :— 
Her  silver  voice  was  heard  upon  the  earth, 
A  sound  unknown  to  you  ;  else,  honoured  friend 


380  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Your  heart  had  borne  a  pitiable  share 
Of  what  I  suffered,  when  I  wept  that  loss, 
And  suffer  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 
That  I  remember,  and  can  weep  no  more. — 
Stripped  as  I  am  of  all  the  golden  fruit 
Of  self-esteem  ;  and  by  the  cutting  blasts 
Of  self-reproach  familiarly  assailed  ; 
I  would  not  yet  be  of  such  wintry  bareness, 
But  that  some  leaf  of  your  regard  should  hang 
Upon  my  naked  branches  : — lively  thoughts 
Give  birth,  full  often,  to  unguarded  words  ; 
I  grieve  that,  in  your  presence,  from  my  tongue 
Too  much  of  frailty  hath  already  dropped  ; 
But  that  too  much  demands  still  more. 

You  know, 
Revered  compatriot ; — and  to  you,  kind  sir, 
(Not  to  be  deemed  a  stranger,  as  you  come 
Following  the  guidance  of  these  welcome  feet 
To  our  secluded  vale)  it  may  be  told, 
That  my  demerits  did  not  sue  in  vain 
To  one  on  whose  mild  radiance  many  gazed 
With  hope,  and  all  with  pleasure.    This  fair  bride, 
In  the  devotedness  of  youthful  love, 
Preferring  me  to  parents,  and  the  choir 
Of  gay  companions,  to  the  natal  roof, 
And  all  known  places  and  familiar  sights, 
(Resigned  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
Her  trembling  expectations,  but  no  more 
Than  did  to  her  due  honour,  and  to  me 
Yielded,  that  day,  a  confidence  sublime 
In  what  I  had  to  build  upon) — this  bride, 
Young,  modest,  meek,  and  beautiful,  I  led 
To  a  low  cottage  in  a  sunny  bay, 
Where  the  salt  sea  innocuously  breaks, 
And  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes, 
On  Devon's  leafy  shores  ; — a  sheltered  hold, 
In  a  soft  clime  encouraging  the  soil 
To  a  luxuriant  bounty  ! — As  our  steps 
Approach  the  embowered  abode — our  chosen  seat— ^ 
See,  rooted  in  the  earth,  her  kindly  bed, 
The  unendangered  myrtle,  decked  with  flowers, 
Before  the  threshold  stands  to  welcome  us  ! 
While,  in  the  flowering  myrtle's  neighbourhood, 
Not  overlooked,  but  courting  no  regard, 
Those  native  plants,  the  holly  and  the  yew, 
Gave  modest  intimation  to  the  mind 
How  willingly  their  aid  they  would  unite 
With  the  green  myrtle,  to  endear  the  hours 
Of  winter,  and  protect  that  pleasant  place. 
Wild  were  the  walks  upon  those  lonely  downs, 
Track  leading  into  track,  how  marked,  how  worn 
Into  bright  verdure,  between  fern  and  gorse 
Winding  away  its  never-ending  line 
On  their  smooth  surface,  evidence  was  none  ; 
But,  there,  lay  open  to  our  daily  haunt, 
A  range  of  unappropriated  earth, 
Where  youth's  ambitious  feet  might  move  at  large  ; 
Whence,  unmolested  wanderers,  we  beheld 


THE  EXCURSION.  381 

The  shining  giver  of  the  clay  diffuse 

His  brightness,  o'er  a  tract  of  sea  and  land 

Gay  as  our  spirits,  free  as  our  desires, 

As  our  enjoyments  boundless. — From  those  heights 

We  dropped,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  combs  ; 

Where  arbours  of  impenetrable  shade, 

And  mossy  seats,  detained  us  side  by  side, 

With  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 

'  That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours.' 

' '  But  nature  called  my  partner  to  resign 

Her  share  in  the  pure  freedom  of  that  life, 

Enjoyed  by  us  in  common. — To  my  hope, 

To  my  heart's  wish,  my  tender  mate  became 

The  thankful  captive  of  maternal  bonds  ; 

And  those  wild  paths  were  left  to  me  alone. 

There  could  I  meditate  on  follies  past , 

And,  like  a  weary  voyager  escaped 

From  risk  and  hardship,  inwardly  retrace 

A  course  of  vain  delights  and  thoughtless  guilt, 

And  self-indulgence — without  shame  pursued. 

There,  undisturbed,  could  think  of,  and  could  thank 

Her — whose  submissive  spirit  was  to  me 

Rule  and  restraint — my  guardian — shall  I  say 

That  earthly  Providence,  whose  guiding  love 

Within  a  port  of  rest  had  lodged  me  safe  ; 

Safe  from  temptation,  and  from  danger  far? 

Strains  followed  of  acknowledgment  addressed 

To  an  Authority  enthroned  above 

The  reach  of  sight ;  from  whom,  as  from  their  source, 
^Proceed  all  visible  ministers  of  good 
^Vhat  walk  the  earth — Father  of  heaven  and  earth, 

Father,  and  King,  and  Judge,  adored  and  feared  ! 

These  acts  of  mind,  and  memory,  and  heart, 

And  spirit, — interrupted  and  relieved 

By  observations  transient  as  the  glance 

Of  flying  sunbeams,  or  to  the  outward  form 

Cleaving  with  power  inherent  and  intense, 

As  the  mute  insect  fixed  upon  the  plant 

On  whose  soft  leaves  it  hangs,  and  from  whose  cup 

Draws  imperceptibly  its  nourishment, — 

Endeared  my  wanderings  ;  and  the  mother's  kiss, 

And  infant's  smile,  awaited  my  return. 

' '  In  privacy  we  dwelt — a  wedded  pair — 
Companions  daily,  often  all  day  long  ; 
Not  placed  by  fortune  within  easy  reach 
Of  various  intercourse,  nor  wishing  aught 
Beyond  the  allowance  of  our  own  fire-side, 
The  twain  within  our  happy  cottage  born, 
Inmates,  and  heirs  of  our  united  love  ; 
Graced  mutually  by  difference  of  sex, 
By  the  endearing  names  of  nature  bound, 
And  with  no  wider  interval  of  time 
Between  their  several  births  than  served  lor  one 
To  establish  something  of  a  leader's  sway  ; 
Yet  left  them  joined  by  sympathy  in  age  ; 
Equals  in  pleasure,  fellows  in  pursuit. 


382  THE  EXCURSION. 

On  these  two  pillars  rested  as  in  air 
Our  solitude. 

It  soothes  me  to  perceive, 
Your  courtesy  withholds  not  from  my  words 
Attentive  audience.     But  oh  !  gentle  friends, 
As  times  of  quiet  and  unbroken  peace 
Though,  for  a  nation,  times  of  blessedness, 
Give  back  faint  echoes  from  the  historian's  page  ; 
So,  in  the  imperfect  sounds  of  this  discourse, 
Depressed  I  hear,  how  faithless  is  the  voice 
Which  those  most  blissful  days  reverberate. 
What  special  record  can,  or  need,  be  given 
To  rules  and  habits,  whereby  much  was  done, 
But  all  within  the  sphere  of  little  things, 
Of  humble,  though,  to  us,  important  cares, 
And  precious  interests?    Smoothly  did  our  life 
Advance,  not  swerving  from  the  path  prescribed  ; 
Her  annual,  her  diurnal  round  alike 
Maintained  with  faithful  care.     And  you  divine 
The  worst  effects  that  our  condition  saw 
If  you  imagine  changes  slowly  wrought, 
A.nd  in  their  progress  imperceptible  ; 
Not  wished  for,  sometimes  noticed  with  a  sigh 
(Whate'er  of  good  or  lovely  they  might  bring), 
Sighs  of  regret,  for  the  familiar  good, 
And  loveliness  endeared— which  they  removed. 

"  Seven  years  of  occupation  undisturbed 
Established  seemingly  a  right  to  hold 
That  happiness  :  and  use  and  habit  gave 
To  what  an  alien  spirit  had  acquired 
A  patrimonial  sanctity.     And  thus, 
With  thoughts  and  wishes  bounded  to  this  world, 
I  lived  and  breathed  ;  most  grateful,  if  to  enjoy 
Without  repining  or  desire  for  more, 
For  different  lot,  or  change  to  higher  sphere, 
(Only  except  some  impulses  of  pride 
With  no  determined  object,  though  upheld 
By  theories  with  suitable  support) 
Most  grateful,  if  in  such  wise  to  enjoy 
Be  proof  of  gratitude  for  what  we  have  ; 
Else,  I  allow,  most  thankless. — But,  at  once, 
From  some  dark  seat  of  fatal  power  was  urged 
A  claim  that  shattered  all. — Our  blooming  girl, 
Caught  in  the  gripe  of  death,  with  such  brief  time 
lo  struggle  in  as  scarcely  would  allow 
Her  cheek  to  change  its  colour,  was  conveyed 
From  us,  to  regions  inaccessible  ; 
Where  height,  or  depth,  admits  not  the  approach 
Of  living  man,  though  longing  to  pursue. 
With  even  as  brief  a  warning— and  how  soon, 
With  what  short  interval  of  time  between, 
I  tremble  yet  to  think  of— our  last  prop, 
Our  happy  life's  only  remaining  stay — 
The  brother  followed  ;  and  was  seen  no  more  ! 

' '  Calm  as  a  frozen  lake  when  ruthless  winds 
Blow  fiercely,  agitating  earth  and  sky, 


TEE  EXCURSION  383 

The  mother  now  remained  ;  as  if  in  her, 

Who,  to  the  lowest  region  of  the  soul, 

Had  been  erewhile  unsettled  and  disturbed, 

This  second  visitation  had  no  power 

To  shake  ;  but  only  to  bind  up  and  seal ; 

And  to  establish  thankfulness  of  heart 

In  Heaven's  determinations,  ever  just ; 

The  eminence  on  which  her  spirit  stood. 

Mine  was  unable  to  attain.     Immense 

The  space  that  severed  us  !     But,  as  the  sight 

Communicates  with  heaven's  ethereal  orbs 

Incalculably  distant ;  so,  I  felt 

That  consolation  may  descend  from  far  ; 

(And,  that  is  intercourse,  and  union,  too) 

While,  overcome  with  speechless  gratitude, 

And,  with  a  holier  love  inspired,  I  looked 

On  her — at  once  superior  to  my  woes 

And  partner  of  my  loss. — Oh,  heavy  change  I 

Dimness  o'er  this  clear  luminary  crept 

Insensibly  ; — the  immortal  and  divine 

Yielded  to  mortal  reflux  ;  her  pure  glory, 

As  from  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  state 

Wretched  ambition  drops  astounded,  fell 

Into  a  gulf  obscure  of  silent  grief, 

And  keen  heart-anguish — of  itself  ashamed, 

Yet  obstinately  cherishing  itself : 

And,  so  consumed,  she  melted  from  my  arms  ; 

And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate. 

' '  What  followed  cannot  be  reviewed  in  thought ; 
Much  less  retraced  in  words.     If  she,  of  life 
Blameless  ;  so  intimate  with  love  and  joy, 
And  all  the  tender  motions  of  the  soul, 
Had  been  supplanted,  could  I  hope  to  stand— 
Infirm,  dependent,  and  now  destitute? 
I  called  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 
That  which  is  veiled  from  waking  thought  ;  conjured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  ghost 
To  appear  and  answer  ;  to  the  grave  I  spake 
Imploringly  ; — looked  up,  and  asked  the  heavens 
If  angels  traversed  their  cerulean  floors, 
If  fixed  or  wandering  star  could  tidings  yield 
Of  the  departed  spirit — what  abode 
It  occupies — what  consciousness  retains 
Of  former  loves  and  interests.     Then  my  soul 
Turned  inward, — to  examine  of  what  stuff 
Time's  fetters  are  composed  ;  and  life  was  put 
To  inquisition,  long  and  profitless  ! 
By  pain  of  heart — now  checked — and  now  impelled — 
The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way  ; 
And  from  those  transports,  and  these  toils  abstruse. 
Some  trace  am  I  enabled  to  retain 
Of  time,  else  lost  ;  existing  unto  me 
Only  by  records  in  myself  not  found. 

"  From  that  abstraction  I  was  roused, — and  how? 
Even  as  a  thoughtful  shepherd  by  a  flash 


384  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Of  lightning  startled  in  a  gloomy  cave 

Of  these  wild  hills.     For  lo  !  the  dread  Bastile, 

With  all  the  chambers  in  its  horrid  towers, 

Fell  to  the  ground :— by  violence  o'erthrown 

Of  indignation  ;  and  with  shouts  that  drowned 

The  crash  it  made  in  falling  !     From  the  wreck 

A  golden  palace  rose,  or  seemed  to  rise, 

The  appointed  seat  of  equitable  law 

And  mild  paternal  sway.     The  potent  shock 

1  felt  ;  the  transformation  I  perceived, 

As  marvellously  seized  as  in  that  moment 

When,  from  the  blind  mist  issuing,  I  beheld 

Glory — beyond  all  glory  ever  seen, 

Confusion  infinite  of  heaven  and  earth, 

Dazzling  the  soul  1     Meanwhile  prophetic  harps 

In  every  grove  were  ringing,  '  War  shall  cease  ; 

Did  ye  not  hear  that  conquest  is  abjured  ? 

Bring  garlands,  bring  forth  choicest  flowers,  to  deck 

The  tree  of  liberty.'— My  heart  rebounded  ; 

My  melancholy  voice  the  chorus  joined  : 

'  Be  joyful  all  ye  nations  !  in  all  lands, 

Ye  that  are  capable  of  joy  be  glad  ! 

Henceforth  whate'er  is  wanting  to  yourselves 

In  others  ye  shall  promptly  find  ;— and  all 

Be  rich  by  mutual  and  reflected  wealth .' 

"Thus  was  I  reconverted  to  the  world  ; 
Society  became  my  glittering  bride, 
And  airy  hopes  my  children.     From  the  depths 
Of  natural  passion,  seemingly  escaped, 
My  soul  diffused  herself  in  wide  embrace 
Of  institutions,  and  the  forms  of  things  ; 
As  they  exist,  in  mutable  array, 
Upon  life's  surface.    What,  though  in  my  veins 
There  flowed  no  Gallic  blood,  nor  had  I  breathed 
The  air  of  France,  not  less  than  Gallic  zeal 
Kindled  and  burnt  among  the  sapless  twigs 
Of  my  exhausted  heart.     If  busy  men 
In  sober  conclave  met,  to  weave  a  web 
Of  amity,  whose  living  threads  should  stretch 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  to  the  farthest  pole, 
There  did  I  sit,  assisting.     If,  with  noise 
And  acclamation,  crowds  in  open  air 
Expressed  the  tumult  of  their  minds,  my  voice 
There  mingled,  heard  or  not.     The  powers  of  song 
I  left  not  uninvoked  ;  and,  in  still  groves, 
Where  mild  enthusiasts  tuned  a  pensive  lay 
Of  thanks  and  expectation,  in  accord 
With  their  belief,   I  sang  Saturnian  rule 
Returned, — a  progeny  of  golden  years 
Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind. 
With  promises  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  teem  : 
I  felt  the  invitation  ;  and  resumed 
A  long-suspended  office  in  the  house 
Of  public  worship,  where,  the  glowing  phrase 
Of  aneient  inspiration  serving  me, 
I  promised  also,— with  undaunted  trust 
Foretold,  and  added  prayer  to  pv6phecy  ; 


TEE  EXCURSION.  385 

The  admiration  winning  of  the  crowd  ; 
The  help  desiring  of  the  pure  devout. 

"  Scorn  and  contempt  forbid  me  to  proceed  ! 
But  history,  time's  slavish  scribe,  will  tell 
How  rapidly  the  zealots  of  the  cause 
Disbanded — or  in  hostile  ranks  appeared  ; 
Some  tired  of  honest  service  ;  these,  outdone, 
Disgusted,  therefore,  or  appalled,  by  aims 
Of  fiercer  zealots — so  confusion  reigned, 
And  the  more  faithful  were  compelled  to  exclaim, 
As  Brutus  did  to  virtue,  '  Liberty, 
1  worshipped  thee,  and  find  thee  but  a  shade  !' 

"  Such  recantation  had  for  me  no  charm, 
Nor  would  I  bend  to  it ;  who  should  have  grieved 
At  aught,  however  fair,  that  bore  the  mien 
Of  a  conclusion,  or  catastrophe. 
Why  then  conceal,  that,  when  the  simply  good 
In  timid  selfishness  withdrew,  I  sought 
Other  support,  not  scrupulous  whence  it  came, 
And,  by  what  compromise  it  stood  not  nice? 
Enough  if  notions  seem  to  be  high  pitched, 
And  qualities  determined.     Among  men 
So  charactered  did  I  maintain  a  strife 
Hopeless,  and  still  more  hopeless  every  hour  ; 
But,  in  the  process,  I  began  to  feel 
That,  if  the  emancipation  of  the  world 
Were  missed,  I  should  at  least  secure  my  own, 
And  be  in  part  compensated.     For  rights, 
Widely — inveterately  usurped  upon, 
I  spake  with  vehemence  ;   and  promptly  seized 
Whate'er  abstraction  furnished  for  my  needs 
Or  purposes  ;  nor  scrupled  to  proclaim, 
And  propagate,  by  liberty  of  life, 
Those  new  persuasions.     Not  that  I  rejoiced, 
Or  even  found  pleasure,  in  such  vagrant  course 
For  its  own  sake  ;  but  farthest  from  the  walk 
Which  I  had  trod  in  happiness  and  peace, 
Was  most  inviting  to  a  troubled  mind  ; 
That,  in  a  struggling  and  distempered  world, 
Saw  a  seductive  image  of  herself. 
Yet,  mark  the  contradictions  of  which  man 
Is  still  the  sport  !     Here  nature  was  my  guide. 
The  nature  of  the  dissolute  ;  but  thee, 

0  fostering  nature  !  I  rejected — smiled 
At  others'  tears  in  pity  ;  and  in  scorn 

At  those  which  thy  soft  influence  sometimes  drew 
From  my  unguarded  heart. — The  tranquil  shores 
Of  Britain  circumscribed  me  ;  else,  perhaps, 

1  might  have  been  entangled  among  deeds 
Which,  now,  as  infamous,  I  should  abhor — 
Despise,  as  senseless  :  for  my  spirit  relished 
Strangely  the  exasperation  of  that  land, 
Which  turned  an  angry  beak  against  the  down 
Of  her  own  breast ;  confounded  into  hope 

Of  disencumbering  thus  her  fretful  wings. 


386  TEE  EXCURSION. 

But  all  was  quieted  by  iron  bonds 
Of  military  sway.     The  shifting  aims, 
The  moral  interests,  the  creative  might, 
The  varied  functions  and  high  attributes 
Of  civil  action,  yielded  to  a  power 
Formal,  and  odious,  and  contemptible. 
In  Britain,  ruled  a  panic  dread  of  change  ; 
The  weak  were  praised,  rewarded,  and  advanced  ; 
And,  from  the  impulse  of  a  just  disdain 
Once  more  did  I  retire  into  myself. 
There  feeling  no  contentment,  I  resolved 
To  fly,  for  safeguard,  to  some  foreign  shore, 
Remote  from  Europe ;  from  her  blasted  hopes  ; 
Per  fields  of  carnage,  and  polluted  air. 

"Fresh  blew  the  wind,  when  o'er  the  Atlantic  main 
The  ship  went  gliding  with  her  thoughtless  crew  ; 
And  who  among  them  but  an  exile,  freed 
From  discontent,  indifferent,  pleased  to  sit 
Among  the  busily  employed,  not  more 
With  obligation  charged,  with  service  taxed, 
Than  the  loose  pendant— to  the  idle  wind 
Upon  the  tall  mast,  streaming  :— but,  ye  powers 
Of  soul  and  sense — mysteriously  allied, 
Oh,  never  let  the  wretched,  if  a  choice 
Be  left  him,  trust  the  freight  of  his  distress 
To  a  long  voyage  on  the  silent  deep  ! 
For,  like  a  plague,  will  memory  break  out  ; 
And,  in  the  blank  and  solitude  of  things, 
Upon  his  spirit,  with  a  fever's  strength, 
Will  conscience  prey. — Feebly  must  they  have  felt 
Who,  in  old  time,  attired  with  snakes  and  whips 
The  vengeful  Furies.     Beautiful  regards 
Were  turned  on  me — the  face  of  her  I  loved  ; 
The  wife  and  mother,  pitifully  fixing 
Tender  reproaches,  insupportable  ! 
Where  now  that  boasted  liberty  ?     No  welcome 
From  unknown  objects  I  received  ;  and  those, 
Known  and  familiar,  which  the  vaulted  sky 
Did,  in  the  placid  clearness  of  the  night, 
Disclose,  had  accusations  to  prefer 
Against  my  peace.     Within  the  cabin  stood 
That  volume — as  the  compass  for  the  soul — 
Revered  among  the  nations.     I  implored 
Its  guidance  ;  but  the  infallible  support 
Of  faith  was  wanting.     Tell  me,  why  refused 
To  one  by  storms  annoyed  and  adverse  winds  ; 
Perplexed  with  currents  ;  of  his  weakness  sick  ; 
Of  vain  endeavours  tired  ;  and  by  his  own, 
And  by  his  nature's,  ignorance,  dismayed  ? 

"  Long-wished-for  sight,  the  western  world  appeared  ; 
And,  when  the  ship  was  moored,  I  leaped  ashore 
Indignantly — resolved  to  be  a  man, 
Who,  having  o'er  the  past  no  power,  would  live 
No  longer  in  subjection  to  the  past, 
With  abject  mind— from  a  tyrannic  lord 
Inviting  penance,  fruitlessly  endured. 


THE  EXCURSION.  387 

So,  like  a  fugitive,  whose  feet  have  cleared 

Some  boundary,  which  his  followers  may  not  cross 

In  prosecution  of  their  deadly  chase, 

Respiring  I  looked  round.— How  bright  the  sun, 

How  promising  the  breeze !— Can  aught  produced 

In  the  old  world  compare,  thought  I,  for  power 

And  majesty  with  this  gigantic  stream, 

Sprung  from  the  desert  ?    And  behold  a  city 

Fresh,  youthful,  and  aspiring  !     What  are  these 

To  me,  or  I  to  them?  as  much  at  least 

As  he  desires  that  they  should  be,  whom  winds 

And  waves  have  wafted  to  this  distant  shore, 

In  the  condition  of  a  damaged  seed, 

Whose  fibres  cannot,  if  they  would,  take  root. 

Here  may  I  roam  at  large  ;  my  business  is, 

Roaming  at  large,  to  observe,  and  not  to  feel  ; 

And,  therefore,  not  to  act— convinced  that  all 

Which  bears  the  name  of  action,  howsoe'er 

Beginning,  ends  in  servitude— still  painful, 

And  mostly  profitless.     And,  sooth  to  say, 

On  nearer  view,  a  motley  spectacle 

Appeared,  of  high  pretensions— unreproved 

But  by  the  obstreperous  voice  of  higher  still ; 

Big  passions  strutting  on  a  petty  stage  ; 

Which  a  detached  spectator  may  regard 

Not  unamused.— But  ridicule  demands 

Quick  change  of  objects  ;  and,  to  laugh  alone. 

At  a  composing  distance  from  the  haunts 

Of  strife  and  folly— though  it  be  a  treat 

As  choice  as  musing  leisure  can  bestow  ; 

Yet  in  the  very  centre  of  the  crowd, 

To  keep  the  secret  of  a  poignant  scorn, 

Howe'er  to  airy  demons  suitable, 

Of  all  unsocial  courses,  is  least  fit 

For  the  gross  spirit  of  mankind,— the  one 

That  soonest  fails  to  please,  and  quickliest  turns 

Into  vexation.— Let  us,  then,  I  said, 

Leave  this  unknit  republic  to  the  scourge 

Of  her  own  passions  ;  and  to  regions  haste, 

Whose  shades  have  never  felt  the  encroaching  axe, 

Or  soil  endured  a  transfer  in  the  mart 

Of  dire  rapacity.     There  man  abides, 

Primeval  nature's  child.     A  creature  weal; 

In  combination  (wherefore  else  driven  bad; 

So  far,  and  of  his  old  inheritance 

So  easily  deprived  ?)  but,  for  that  cause, 

More  dignified,  and  stronger  in  himself ; 

Whether  to  act,  judge,  suffer,  or  enjoy. 

True,  the  intelligence  of  social  art 

Hath  overpowered  his  forefathers,  and  soon 

Will  sweep  the  remnant  of  his  line  away  ; 

But  contemplations,  worthier,  nobler  far 

Than  her  destructive  energies  attend 

His  independence,  when  along  the  side 

Of  Mississippi,  or  that  northern  stream 

That  spreads  into  successive  seas,  he  walks  : 

Pleased  to  perceive  his  own  unshackled  life, 

And  his  innate  capacities  of  soul, 


TEE  EXCURSION 

There  imaged  :  or,  when  having  gained  the  top 
Of  some  commanding  eminence,  which  yet 
Intruder  ne'er  beheld,  he  thence  surveys 
Regions  of  wood  and  wide  savanna,  vast 
Expanse  of  unappropriated  earth, 
With  mind  that  sheds  a  light  on  what  he  sees  ; 
Free  as  the  sun,  and  lonely  as  the  sun, 
Pouring  above  his  head  its  radiance  down 
Upon  a  living  and  rejoicing  world  I 

"  So,  westward,  tow'rd  the  unviolated  woods 
I  bent  my  way  ;  and,  roaming  far  and  wide, 
Failed  not  to  greet  the  merry  mocking-bird  ; 
And,  while  the  melancholy  muccawiss 
(The  sportive  bird's  companion  in  the  grove) 
Repeated,  o'er  and  o'er,  his  plaintive  cry, 
I  sympathised  at  leisure  with  the  sound, 
But  that  pure  archetype  of  human  greatness, 
I  found  him  not.     There,  in  his  stead,  appeared 
A  creature,  squalid,  vengeful,  and  impure  ; 
Remorseless,  and  submissive  to  no  law 
But  superstitious  fear,  and  abject  sloth. 
Enough  is  told  !     Here  am  I — Ye  have  heard 
What  evidence  I  seek,  and  vainly  seek  ; 
What  from  my  fellow-beings  I  require, 
And  cannot  find  ;  what  I  myself  have  lost, 
Nor  can  regain  ;  how  languidly  I  look 
Upon  this  visible  fabric  of  the  world, 
May  be  divined — perhaps  it  hath  been  said  : — 
But  spare  your  pity,  if  there  be  in  me 
Aught  that  deserves  respect :  for  I  exist — 
Within  myself — not  comfortless. — The  tenor 
Which  my  life  holds,  he  readily  may  conceive 
Whoe'er  hath  stood  to  watch  a  mountain  brook 
In  some  still  passage  of  its  course,  and  seen, 
Within  the  depths  of  its  capacious  breast, 
Inverted  trees,  and  rocks,  and  azure  sky  ; 
And,  on  its  glassy  surface,  specks  of  foam, 
And  conglobated  bubbles  undissolved, 
Numerous  as  stars  ;  that,  by  their  onward  lapse> 
Betray  to  sight  the  motion  of  the  stream, 
Else  imperceptible  ;  meanwhile,  is  heard 
A  softened  roar,  a  murmur  ;  and  the  sound 
Though  soothing,  and  the  little  floating  isles 
Though  beautiful,  are  both  by  nature  charged 
With  the  same  pensive  office ;  and  make  known 
Through  what  perplexing  labyrinths,  abrupt 
Precipitations,  and  untoward  straits, 
The  earth-born  wanderer  hath  passed  ;  and  quickly, 
That  respite  o'er,  like  traverses  and  toils 
Must  be  again  encountered. — Such  a  stream 
Is  human  life  ;  and  so  the  spiiit  fares 
In  the  best  quiet  to  its  course  allowed  ; 
And  such  is  mine, — save  only  for  a  hope 
That  my  particular  current  soon  will  reach 
The  unfathomable  gulf,  where  all  is  still  I" 


THE  EXCURSION.  389 


BOOK   IV. 

ARGUMENT. 

State  of  feeling  produced  by  the  foregoing  narrative— A  belief  in  a  superintending  Providence  the 
onlyadequatc  support  under  affliction — Waml'ii  r\  circulation — Accountof  his  own  devotional 
feelings  in  youth  involved— Acknowledges  the  difficulty  of  a  lively  faith— Hence  immoderate 
sorrow — Doubt  or  despondence  not  therefore  to  be  inferred — Consolation  to  the  Solitary—  Exhor- 
tations—How received— Wanderer  applies  his  discourse  to  that  other  cause  of  dejection  in  the 
Solitary's  mind — Disappointment  from  the  French  Revolution — States  grounds  of  hope— Insists 
on  the  necessity  of  patience  and  fortitude  with  respect  to  the  course  of  great  revolutions — 
Knowledge  the  source  of  tranquillity — Rural  solitude  favourable  to  knowledge  of  the  inferior 
creatures — Study  of  their  habits  and  ways  recommended — Exhortation  to  bodily  exertion  and 
communion  with  nature — Morbid  solitude  pitiable — Superstition  better  than  apathy-Apathy 
and  destitution  unknown  in  the  infancy  of  society — The  various  modes  of  religion  prevented  it 
—  Illustrated  in  the^Jewish,  Persian,  Babylonian,  Chaldean,  and  Grecian  modes  of  belief — 
Solitary  interposes — Wanderer  points  out  the  influence  of  religious  and  imaginative  feeling  in 
the  humble  ranks  of  society — Illustrated  from  present  and  past  times— These  principles  tend 
to  recall  exploded  superstitions  and  popery — Wanderer  rebuts  this  charge,  and  contrasts  the  dig- 
nities of  the  Imagination  with  the  presumptive  littleness  of  certain  modern  philosophers — 
Recommends  other  lights  and  guides — Asserts  the  power  of  the  soul  to  regenerate  herself— 
Solitary  asks  how — Reply — Personal  appeal — Happy  that  the  imagination  and  the  affections 
mitigate  the  evils  of  that  intellectual  slavery  which  the  calculating  understanding  is  apt  to 
produce — Exhortation  to  activity  of  body  renewed — How  to  commune  with  nature — Wanderer 
concludes  with  a  legitimate  union  of  the  imagination,  affections,  understanding,  and  reason — 
Effect  of  his  discourse — Evening — Return  to  the  cottage. 

DESPONDENCY  CORRECTED. 

Here  closed  the  tenant  of  that  lonely  vale 
His  mournful  narrative — commenced  in  pain, 
In  pain  commenced,  and  ended  without  peace  : 
Yet  tempered,  not  unfrequently  with  strains 
Of  native  feeling,  grateful  to  our  minds  ; 
And  doubtless  yielding  some  relief  to  his, 
While  we  sate  listening  with  compassion  due. 
Such  pity  yet  surviving,  with  firm  voice, 
That  did  not  falter,  though  the  heart  was  moved, 
The  Wanderer  said — 

"  One  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists,  one  only  ; — an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power, 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. 
The  darts  of  anguish  fix  not  where  the  seat 
Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly  fortified 
By  acquiescence  in  the  Will  Supreme 
For  time  and  for  eternity  ;  by  faith, 
Faith,  absolute  in  God,  including  hope, 
And  the  defence  that  lies  in  boundless  love 
Of  His  perfections  ;  with  habitual  dread 
Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  endured 
Impatiently  ;  ill-done,  or  left  undone, 
To  the  dishonour  of  His  holy  name. 
Soul  of  our  souls,  and  safeguard  of  the  world  ! 
Sustain,  Thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of  heart  ■ 


390  THE  EXCURSION. 

Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  Thee  and  Thine  !" 

Then,  as  we  issued  from  that  covert  nook, 
He  thus  continued— lifting  up  his  eyes 
To  heaven. — "  How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky. 
And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fixed 
At  Thy  command,  how  awful !     Shall  the  soul, 
Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 
Even  less  than  these? — Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 
Yet  will  I  praise  Thee  with  impassioned  voice  : 
My  lips,  that  may  forget  Thee  in  the  crowd, 
Cannot  forget  Thee  here  ;  where  Thou  hast  built, 
For  Thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness  ! 
Me  didst  Thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine, 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 
Reared  for  Thy  presence  :  therefore  am  I  bound 
To  worship  here  and  everywhere — as  one 
Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread, 
From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty  ; 
From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved, 
And  from  debasement  rescued.— By  Thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remained  unquenched  : 
And,  'mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil, 
Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers, 
From  Paradise  transplanted  ;  wintry  age 
Impends  ;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart  ; 
And,  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead  ! 
Come,  labour,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  Sabbath  ;  come,  disease  and  want  ; 
And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense  ; 
But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee — 
And  let  Thy  favour,  to  the  end  of  life, 
Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things — 
Father  of  heaven  and  earth  !  and  I  am  rich, 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content ! 

"And  what  are  things  eternal ?— Powers  depart," 
The  grey-haired  Wanderer  steadfastly  replied, 
Answering  the  question  which  himself  had  asked, 
"  Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat  : 
But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane, 
Duty  exists  ;  immutably  survive, 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms, 
Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies  ; 
Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not  : 
Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart, 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require, 

What  more,  that  may  not  perish  ?  Thou,  dread  Source, 
Prime,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all, 
That,  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place, 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 
Set  and  sustained  ; — Thou — who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  a  while 


THE  EXCURSION.  391 

Mightst  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed— 

Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 

Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 

And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 

Restorest  us  daily  to  powers  of  sense, 

And  reason's  steadfast  rule — Thou,  Thou  alone 

Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  spirits, 

Which  Thou  includcst,  as  the  sea  her  waves  : 

For  adoration  Thou  endurest ;  endure 

l-'or  consciousness  the  motions  of  Thy  will  ; 

For  apprehension  those  transcendant  truths 

Of  pure  intellect  that  stand  as  laws, 

(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 

Even  to  Thy  Being's  infinite  majesty  ! 

This  Universe  shall  pass  away— a  work 

Glorious  !  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 

A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  Thee. 

Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 

No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 

Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unprisoned  mind 

May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 

Still,  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 

What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  youth  were  mine  ;  when  stationed  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill— expectant,  I  beheld 

The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned 

Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day 

His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  towards  the  deep 

Sink  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 

Attended  ;  then  my  spirit  was  entranced 

With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss, 

And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  ! 

1 '  Those  fervent  raptures  are  for  ever  flown  : 
And,  since  their  date,  my  soul  hath  undergone 
Change  manifold,  for  better  or  for  worse  ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  struggle,  and  aspire 
Heavenward  :  and  chide  the  part  of  me  that  flags, 
Through  sinful  choice  ;  or  dread  necessity, 
On  human  nature,  from  above,  imposed. 
'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 
Earth  to  despise  ;  but,  to  converse  with  Heaven — 
This  is  not  easy  :— to  relinquish  all 
We  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy, 
And  stand  in  freedom  loosened  from  this  world, 
I  deem  not  arduous  : — but  must  needs  confess 
That  'tis  a  thing  impossible  to  frame 
Conceptions  equal  to  the  soul's  desires  ; 
And  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  keep 
Heights  which  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain. 
Man  is  of  dust :  ethereal  hopes  are  his, 
Which,  when  they  should  sustain  themselves  aloft, 
Want  due  consistence  ;  like  a  pillar  of  smoke,  ,  E 


392  THE  EXCURSION. 

That  with  majestic  energy  from  earth 

Rises  ;  but,  having  reached  the  thinner  air, 

Melts,  and  dissolves,  and  is  no  longer  seen. 

From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 

Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not ; — at  least, 

If  grief  be  something  hallowed  and  ordained, 

If  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet, 

Through  this,  'tis  able  to  maintain  its  hold, 

In  that  excess  which  conscience  disapproves. 

For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 

Of  selfishness  ;  so  senseless  who  could  be 

As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 

For  any  object  of  his  love,  removed 

From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix 

A  satisfying  view  upon  that  state 

Of  pure,  imperishable  blessedness, 

Which  reason  promises,  and  Holy  Writ 

Insures  to  all  believers? — Yet  mistrust 

Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks, 

No  natural  branch  ;  despondency  far  less. 

And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have  drooped 

Even  to  the  dust  ;  apparently,  through  weight 

Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 

An  agonizing  sorrow  to  transmute, 

Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withheld 

When  wanted  most  ;  a  confidence  impaired 

So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 

VVith  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 

Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret. 

Oh  !  no,  full  oft  the  innocent  sufferer  sees 

Too  clearly  ;  feels  too  vividly  ;  and  longs 

To  realize  the  vision,  with  intense 

And  overconstant  yearning — there — there  lies 

The  excess,  by  which  the  balance  is  destroyed. 

Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endowed,  too  dim 

For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 

To  ecstasy  ;  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 

Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 

Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 

I,  speaking  now  from  such  disorder  free, 

Nor  rapt,  nor  craving,  but  in  settled  peace, 

I  cannot  doubt  that  they  whom  you  deplore 

Are  glorified  ;  or,  if  they  sleep,  shall  wake 

From  sleep,  and  dwell  with  God  in  endless  love. 

Hope,  below  this,  consists  not  with  belief 

In  mercy,  carried  infinite  degrees 

Beyond  the  tenderness  of  human  hearts  : 

Hope,  below  this,  consists  not  with  belief 

In  perfect  wisdom,  guiding  mightiest  power, 

That  finds  no  limits  but  her  own  pure  will. 

"  Here  then  we  rest ;  not  fearing  for  our  creed 
The  worst  that  human  reasoning  can  achieve, 
To  unsettle  or  perplex  it :  yet  with  pain 
Acknowledging,  and  grievous  self-reproach, 
That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  want 


THE  EXGUESION.  393 

Zeal,  and  the  virtue  to  exist  by  faith 

As  soldiers  live  by  courage  ;  as,  by  strength 

Of  heart,  the  sailor  fights  with  roaring  seas. 

Alas  !  the  endowment  of  immortal  power 

Is  matched  unequally  with  custom,  time, 

And  domineering  faculties  of  sense 

In  all ;  in  most  with  superadded  foes, 

Idle  temptations — open  vanities, 

Ephemeral  offspring  of  the  unblushing  world  ; 

And  in  the  private  regions  of  the  mind, 

Ill-governed  passions,  ranklings  of  despite, 

Immoderate  wishes,  pining  discontent, 

Distress  and  care.    What  then  remains  ? — To  seek 

Those  helps,  for  his  occasions  ever  near, 

Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them  ;  vows,  renewed 

On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought  ; 

Vigils  of  contemplation  ;  praise  ;  and  prayer, 

A  stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart, 

Issuing,  however  feebly,  nowhere  flows 

Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 

Rut,  above  all,  the  victor)'  is  most  sure 

For  him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 

To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 

Of  conscience  ;  conscience  reverenced  and  obeyed, 

As  God's  most  intimate  presence  in  the  soul, 

And  his  most  perfect  image  in  the  world. 

Endeavour  thus  to  live  ;  these  rules  regard  ; 

These  helps  solicit ;  and  a  steadfast  seat 

Shall  then  be  yours  among  the  happy  few 

Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 

Sons  of  the  morning.     For  your  nobler  part, 

Ere  disencumbered  of  her  mortal  chains, 

Doubt  shall  be  quelled  and  trouble  chased  away  ; 

With  only  such  degree  of  sadness  left 

As  may  support  longings  of  pure  desire  ; 

And  strengthen  love,  rejoicing  secretly 

In  the  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave." 

While  in  this  strain,  the  venerable  sage 
Poured  forth  his  aspirations,  and  announced 
His  judgments,  near  that  lonely  house  we  paced 
A  plot  of  greensward,  seemingly  preserved 
By  nature's  care  from  wreck  of  scattered  stones, 
And  from  encroachment  of  encircling  heath  : 
Small  space  !  but,  for  reiterated  steps, 
Smooth  and  commodious  ;  as  a  stately  deck 
Which  to  and  fro  the  mariner  is  used 
To  tread  for  pastime,  talking  with  his  mates, 
Or  haply  thinking  of  far-distant  friends, 
While  the  ship  glides  before  a  steady  breeze. 
Stillness  prevailed  around  us  :  and  the  voice 
That  spake  was  capable  to  lift  the  soul 
Toward  regions  yet  more  tranquil.     But,  methought, 
That  he  whose  fixed  despondency  had  given 
Impulse  and  motive  to  that  strong  discourse, 
Was  less  upraised  in  spirit  than  abashed ; 
Shrinking  from  admonition,  like  a  man 
Who  feels  that  to  exhort  is  to  reproach. 


THE  EXCURSION. 

Yet  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  aim, 

The  sage  continued. — "  For  that  other  loss. 

The  loss  of  confidence  in  social  man, 

By  the  unexpected  transports  of  our  age 

Carried  so  high,  that  every  thought— which  looked 

Beyond  the  temporal  destiny  of  the  kind — 

To  many  seemed  superfluous  ;  as  no  cause 

For  such  exalted  confidence  could  e'er 

Exist ;  so,  none  is  now  for  fixed  despair  ; 

The  two  extremes  are  equally  disowned 

By  reason  ;  if,  with  sharp  recoil,  from  one 

You  have  been  driven  far  as  its  opposite, 

Between  them  seek  the  point  whereon  to  build 

Sound  expectations.     So  doth  he  advise 

Who  shared  at  first  the  illusion  ;  but  was  soon 

Cast  from  the  pedestal  of  pride  by  shocks 

Which  nature  gently  gave,  in  woods  and  fields  ; 

Nor  unreproved  by  Providence,  thus  speaking 

To  the  inattentive  children  of  the  world : 

'  Vain-glorious  generation  !  What  new  powers 

On  you  have  been  conferred  ?  what  gifts  withheld 

From  your  progenitors,  have  ye  received, 

Fit  recompense  of  new  desert  ?  what  claim 

Are  ye  prepared  to  urge,  that  my  decrees 

For  you  should  undergo  a  sudden  change  ; 

And  the  weak  functions  of  one  busy  day, 

Reclaiming  and  extirpating,  perform 

What  all  the  slowly-moving  years  of  time, 

With  their  united  force,  have  left  undone  ? 

By  nature's  gradual  processes  be  taught ; 

By  story  be  confounded  !  Ye  aspire 

Rashly,  to  fall  once  more  ;  and  that  false  fruit, 

Which  to  your  over-weening  spirits,  yields 

Hope  of  a  flight  celestial,  will  produce 

Misery  and  shame.     But  wisdom  of  her  sons 

Shall  not  the  less,  though  late,  be  justified.' 

Such  timely  warning,  said  the  Wanderer,  gave 

That  visionary  voice  ;  and,  at  this  day, 

When  a  Tartarian  darkness  overspreads 

The  groaning  nations  ;  when  the  impious  rule, 

By  will  or  by  established  ordinance, 

Their  own  dire  agents,  and  constrain  the  good 

To  acts  which  they  abhor  ;  though  1  bewail 

This  triumph,  yet  the  pity  of  my  heart 

Prevents  me  from  not  owning  that  the  law 

By  which  mankind  now  suffers,  is  most  just. 

For  by  superior  energies  ;  more  strict 

Affiance  in  each  other  ;  faith  more  firm 

In  their  unhallowed  principles  ;  the  bad 

Have  fairly  earned  a  victory  o'er  the  weak, 

The  vacillating,  inconsistent  good. 

Therefore,  not  unconsoled,  I  wait — in  hope 

To  see  the  moment  when  the  righteous  cause 

Shall  gain  defenders  zealous  and  devout 

As  they  who  have  opposed  her  ;  in  which  virtue 

Will,  to  her  efforts,  tolerate  no  bounds 

That  are  not  lofty  as  her  rights  ;  aspiring 

By  impulse  of  her  own  ethereal  zeal. 


THE  EXCURSION.  395 

That  spirit  only  can  redeem  mankind : 
And  when  that  sacred  spirit  shall  appear, 
Then  shall  our  triumph  be  complete  as  theirs. 
Yet,  should  this  confidence  prove  vain,  the  wise 
Have  still  the  keeping  of  their  proper  peace  : 
Are  guardians  of  their  own  tranquillity, 
They  act,  or  they  recede,  observe,  and  feel ; 
'  Knowing  the  heart  of  roan  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
Those  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate  ;  whose  strong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress  ; 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  /'* 

"  Happy  is  he  who  lives  to  understand — 
Not  human  nature  only,  but  explores 
All  natures, — to  the  end  that  he  may  find 
The  law  that  governs  each  ;  and  where  begins 
The  union,  the  partition  where,  that  makes 
Kind  and  degree,  among  all  visible  beings  ; 
The  constitutions,  powers,  and  faculties, 
Which  they  inherit,  cannot  step  beyond, — 
And  cannot  fall  beneath  ;  that  do  assign 
To  every  class  its  station  and  its  office, 
Through  all  the  mighty  commonwealth  of  things  ; 
Up  from  the  creeping  plant  to  sovereign  man. 
Such  converse,  if  directed  by  a  meek, 
Sincere,  and  humble  spirit,  teaches  love  ; 
For  knowledge  is  delight  ;  and  such  delight 
Breeds  love  ;  yet,  suited  as  it  rather  is 
To  thought  and  to  the  climbing  intellect, 
It  teaches  less  to  love,  than  to  adore  ; 
If  that  be  not  indeed  the  highest  love  !" 

"  Yet,"  said  I,  tempted  here  to  interpose, 
"  The  dignity  of  life  is  not  impaired 
By  aught  that  innocently  satisfies 
The  humbler  cravings  of  the  heart  ;  and  he 
Is  a  still  happier  man,  who,  for  those  heights 
Of  speculation  not  unfit,  descends  ; 
And  such  benign  affections  cultivates 
Among  the  inferior  kinds  ;  not  merely  those 
That  he  may  call  his  own,  and  which  depend, 
As  individual  objects  of  regard, 
Upon  his  care, — from  whom  he  also  looks 
For  signs  and  tokens  of  a  mutual  bond, — 
But  others,  far  beyond  this  narrow  sphere, 
Whom,  for  the  very  sake  of  love,  he  loves. 
Nor  is  it  a  mean  praise  of  rural  life 
And  solitude,  that  they  do  favour  most, 
Most  frequently  call  forth,  and  best  sustain 
These  pure  sensations  ;  that  can  penetrate 
The  obstreperous  city  ;  on  the  barren  seas 
Are  not  unfelt, — and  much  might  recommend, 

*  Daniel. 


396  TEE  EXCURSION. 

How  much  they  might  inspirit  and  endear, 
The  loneliness  of  this  sublime  retreat  1" 


"Yes,"  said  the  sage,  resuming  the  discourse 
Again  directed  to  his  downcast  friend, 
"  If,  with  the  froward  will  and  grovelling  soul 
Of  man  offended,  liberty  is  here, 
And  invitation  every  hour  renewed, 
To  mark  their  placid  state,  who  never  heard 
Of  a  command  which  they  have  power  to  break, 
Or  rule  which  they  are  tempted  to  transgress  ; 
These,  with  a  soothed  or  elevated  heart, 
May  we  behold  ;  their  knowledge  register  ; 
Observe  their  ways  ;  and,  free  from  envy,  find 
Complacence  there  ; — but  wherefore  this  to  you  ? 
I  guess  that,  welcome  to  your  lonely  hearth, 
The  redbreast  feeds  in  winter  from  your  hand  ; 
A  box,  perchance,  is  from  your  casement  hung 
For  the  small  wren  to  build  in  ; — not  in  vain, 
The  barriers  disregarding  that  surround 
This  deep  abiding-place,  before  your  sight 
Mounts  on  the  breeze  the  butterfly— and  soars, 
Small  creature  as  she  is,  from  earth's  bright  flowers 
Into  the  dewy  clouds.     Ambition  reigns 
In  the  waste  wilderness  :  the  soul  ascends 
Towards  her  native  firmament  of  heaven, 
When  the  fresh  eagle,  in  the  month  of  May, 
Upborne,  at  evening,  on  replenished  wing, 
This  shaded  valley  leaves, — and  leaves  the  dark 
Empurpled  hills, — conspicuously  renewing 
A  proud  communication  with  the  sun 
Low  sunk  beneath  the  horizon  ! — List  ! — I  heard, 
From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a  solemn  bleat  ; 
Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  mountain's  voice, 
As  if  the  visible  mountain  made  the  cry. 
Again  !" — The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 
As  he  expressed  ;  from  out  the  mountain's  heart 
The  solemn  bleat  appeared  to  issue,  startling 
The  blank  air — for  the  region  all  around 
Stood  silent,  empty  of  all  shape  of  life  : 
It  was  a  lamb— left  somewhere  to  itself, 
The  plaintive  spirit  of  the  solitude  ! — 
He  paused,  as  if  unwilling  to  proceed, 
Through  consciousness  that  silence  in  such  place 
Was  best, — the  most  affecting  eloquence. 
But  soon  his  thoughts  returned  upon  themselves, 
And,  in  soft  tone  of  speech,  he  thus  resumed  : 

"Ah  !  if  the  heart,  too  confidently  raised, 
Perchance  too  lightly  occupied,  or  lulled 
Too  easily,  despise  or  overlook 
The  vassalage  that  binds  her  to  the  earth, 
Her  sad  dependence  upon  time,  and  all 
The  trepidations  of  mortality, 
What  place  so  destitute  and  void — but  there 
The  little  flower  her  vanity  shall  check  ; 
The  trailing  worm  reprove  her  thoughtless  pride  ? 


THE  EXCURSION.  397 

"  Those  craggy  regions,  these  chaotic  wilds 
Does  that  benignity  pervade,  that  warms 
The  mole  contented  with  her  darksome  walk 
In  the  cold  ground  :  and  to  the  emmet  gives 
Her  foresight,  and  intelligence  that  makes 
The  tiny  creatures  strong  by  social  league  ; 
Supports  the  generations,  multiplies 
Their  tribes,  till  we  behold  a  spacious  plain 
Or  grassy  bottom,  all,  with  little  hills — 
Their  labour — covered,  as  a  lake  with  waves  ; 
Thousands  of  cities,  in  the  desert  place 
Built  up  of  life,  and  food,  and  means  of  life  ! 
Nor  wanting  here,  to  entertain  the  thought, 
Creatures,  that  in  communities  exist, 
Less,  as  might  seem,  for  general  guardianship 
Or  through  dependence  upon  mutual  aid, 
Than  by  participation  of  delight 
And  a  strict  love  of  fellowship,  combined. 
What  other  spirit  can  it  be  that  prompts 
The  gilded  summer  flies  to  mix  and  weave 
Their  sports  together  in  the  solar  beam, 
Or  in  the  gloom  of  twilight  hum  their  joy? 
More  obviously,  the  self-same  influence  rules 
The  feathered  kinds  ;  the  fieldfare's  pensive  flock, 
The  cawing  rooks,  and  sea-mews  from  afar, 
Hovering  above  these  inland  solitudes, 
By  the  rough  wind  unscattered,  at  whose  call 
Their  voyage  was  begun  !  nor  is  its  power 
Unfelt  among  the  sedentary  fowl 
That  seek  yon  pool,  and  there  prolong  their  stay 
In  silent  congress  ;  or  together  roused 
Take  flight  ;  while  with  their  clang  the  air  resounds, 
And,  over  all,  in  that  ethereal  arch, 
Is  the  mute  company  of  changeful  clouds  ; 
Bright  apparition  suddenly  put  forth, 
The  rainbow  smiling  on  the  faded  storm  ; 
The  mild  assemblage  of  the  starry  heavens  ; 
And  the  great  sun,  earth's  universal  lord  ! 

' '  How  bountiful  is  nature !  he  shall  find 
Who  seeks  not ;  and  to  him  who  hath  not  asked, 
Large  measure  shall  be  dealt.     Three  Sabbath-days 
Are  scarcely  told,  since,  on  a  service  bent 
Of  mere  humanity,  you  clomb  those  heights  ; 
And  what  a  marvellous  and  heavenly  show 
Was  to  your  sight  revealed  !  the  swains  moved  on, 
And  heeded  not ;  you  lingered,  and  perceived. 
There  is  a  luxury  in  self-dispraise  ; 
And  inward  self-disparagement  affords 
To  meditative  spleen  a  grateful  feast. 
Trust  me,  pronouncing  on  your  own  desert, 
You  judge  unthankfully  ;  distempered  nerves 
Infect  the  thoughts  :  the  languor  of  the  frame 
Depresses  the  soul's  vigour.     Quit  your  couch — 
Cleave  not  so  fondly  to  your  moody  cell : 
Nor  let  the  hallowed  powers,  that  shed  from  heaven 
Stillness  and  rest,  with  disapproving  eye 
Look  down  upon  your  taper,  through  a  watch 


398  THE  EXCURSION. 

Of  midnight  hours,  unseasonably  twinkling 
In  this  deep  hollow  ;  like  a  sullen  star 
Dimly  reflected  in  a  lonely  pool. 
(Take  courage,  and  withdraw  yourself  from  ways 
!  That  run  not  parallel  to  nature's  course. 
Rise  with  the  lark  !  your  matins  shall  obtain 
Grace,  be  their  composition  what  it  may, 
If  but  with  hers  performed  ;  climb  once  again, 
Climb  every  day  those  ramparts  ;  meet  the  breeze 
Upon  their  tops,— adventurous  as  a  bee 
That  from  your  garden  thither  soars,  to  feed 
On  new-blown  heath  ;  let  yon  commanding  rock 
Be  your  frequented  watch-tower  ;  roll  the  stone 
In  thunder  down  the  mountains  ;  with  all  your  might 
Chase  the  wild  goat  ;  and,  if  the  bold  red  deer 
Fly  to  these  harbours,  driven  by  hound  and  horn 
Loud  echoing,  add  your  speed  to  the  pursuit : 
So,  wearied  to  your  hut  shall  you  return, 
And  sink  at  evening  into  sound  repose." 

The  Solitary  lifted  tow'rd  the  hills 
A  kindling  eye  ;— poetic  feelings  rushed 
Into  my  bosom,  whence  these  words  broke  forth  : 
"  Oh  !  what  a  joy  it  were,  in  vigorous  health, 
To  have  a  body  (this  our  vital  frame 
With  shrinking  sensibility  endued, 
And  all  the  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood) 
And  to  the  elements  surrender  it 
As  if  it  were  a  spirit !— How  divine, 
The  liberty,  for  frail,  for  mortal  man 
To  roam  at  large  among  unpeopled  glens 
And  mountainous  retirements,  only  trod 
By  devious  footsteps  :  regions  consecrate 
To  oldest  time  !  and,  reckless  of  the  storm 
That  keeps  the  raven  quiet  in  her  nest, 
Be  as  a  presence  or  a  motion — one 
Among  the  many  there  ;  and,  while  the  mists 
Flying,  and  rainy  vapours,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth, 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument ;  and,  while  the  streams 
(As  at  a  first  creation,  and  in  haste 
To  exercise  their  untried  faculties, ) 
Descending  from  the  region  of  the  clouds, 
And  starting  from  the  hollows  of  the  earth, 
More  multitudinous  every  moment,  rend 
Their  way  before  them— what  a  joy  to  roam 
An  equal  among  mightiest  energies  ; 
And  haply  sometimes  with  articulate  voice, 
Amid  the  deafening  tumult,  scarcely  heard 
By  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud, 
'  Be  this  continued  so  from  day  to  day, 
Nor  let  the  fierce  commotion  have  an  end, 
Ruinous  though  it  be,  from  month  to  month  ! ' " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Wanderer,  taking  from  my  lips 
The  strain  of  transport,  "  whatsoe'er  in  youth 
Has,  through  ambition  of  his  soul,  given  way 


THE  EXCURSION.  89$ 

To  such  desires,  and  grasped  at  such  delight, 
Shall  feel  congenial  stirrings  late  and  long  ; 
In  spite  of  all  the  weakness  that  life  brings, 
Its  cares  and  sorrows  ;  he  though  taught  to  own 
The  tranquillizing  power  of  time,  shall  wake, 
Wake  sometimes  to  a  noble  restlessness — 
Loving  the  sports  which  once  he  gloried  in. 

"Compatriot,  friend,  remote  are  Garry's  Hills, 
The  streams  far  distant  of  your  native  glen  ; 
Yet  is  their  form  and  image  here  expressed 
With  brotherly  resemblance.     Turn  your  steps 
Wherever  fancy  leads,  by  day,  by  night, 
Are  various  engines  working,  not  the  same 
Vs  those  by  which  your  soul  in  youth  was  moved, 
But  by  the  great  Artificer  endued 
With  no  inferior  power.     You  dwell  alone ; 
You  walk,  you  live,  you  speculate  alone  ; 
Yet  doth  remembrance,  like  a  sovereign  prince, 
For  you  a  stately  gallery  maintain 
Of  gay  or  tragic  pictures.     You  have  seen, 
Have  acted,  suffered,  travelled  far,  observed 
With  no  incurious  eye  ;  and  books  are  yours, 
Within  whose  silent  chambers  treasure  lies 
Preserved  from  age  to  age  ;  more  precious  far 
Than  that  accumulated  store  of  gold 
And  orient  gems,  which,  for  a  day  of  need, 
The  Sultan  hides  within  ancestral  tombs. 
These  hoards  of  truth  you  can  unlock  at  will : 
And  music  waits  upon  your  skilful  touch, — 
Sounds  which  the  wandering  shepherd  from  these  heights 
Hears,  and  forgets  his  purpose  ; — furnished  thus 
How  can  you  droop,  if  willing  to  be  raised  ? 

A  piteous  lot  it  were  to  flee  from  man — 
Yet  not  rejoice  in  nature.     He — whose  hours 
Are  by  domestic  pleasures  uncaressed 
And  unenlivened  ;  who  exists  whole  years 
Apart  from  benefits  received  or  done 
'Mid  the  transactions  of  the  bustling  crowd  ; 
Who  neither  hears,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  hear, 
Of  the  world's  interests — such  a  one  hath  need 
Of  a  quick  fancy,  and  an  active  heart, 
That,  for  the  day's  consumption,  books  may  yield 
A  not  unwholesome  food,  and  earth  and  air 
Supply  his  morbid  humour  with  delight. 
Truth  has  her  pleasure-grounds,  her  haunts  of  ease 
And  easy  contemplation, — gay  parterres, 
And  labyrinthine  walks,  her  sunny  glades 
And  shady  groves  for  recreation  framed : 
These  may  he  range,  if  willing  to  partake 
Their  soft  indulgences,  and  in  due  time 
May  issue  thence,  recruited  for  the  tasks 
And  course  of  service  truth  requires  from  those 
Who  tend  her  altars,  wait  upon  her  throne, 
And  guard  her  fortresses.     Who  thinks  and  fepls, 
And  recognizes  ever  and  anon 
The  breeze  of  nature  stirring  in  his  soul, 


400  THE  EXCURSION. 

Why  need  such  man  go  desperately  astray, 
And  nurse  '  the  dreadful  appetite  of  death  ?  ' 
If  tired  with  systems — each  in  its  degree 
Substantial— and  all  crumbling  in  their  turn, 
Let  him  build  systems  of  his  own,  and  smile 
At  the  fond  work — demolished  with  a  touch  : 
If  unreligious,  let  him  be  at  once, 
Among  ten  thousand  innocents,  enrolled 
A  pupil  in  the  many-chambered  school 
Where  superstition  weaves  her  airy  dreams. 

"  Life's  autumn  past,  I  stand  on  winter's  verge, 
And  daily  lose  what  I  desire  to  keep  ! 
Yet  rather  would  I  instantly  decline 
To  the  traditionary  sympathies 
Of  a  most  rustic  ignorance,  and  take 
A  fearful  apprehension  from  the  owl 
Or  death-watch, — and  as  readily  rejoice, 
If  two  auspicious  magpies  crossed  my  way  ; 
To  this  would  rather  bend  than  see  and  hear 
The  repetitions  wearisome  of  sense, 
Where  soul  is  dead,  and  feeling  hath  no  place  ; 
Where  knowledge,  ill  begun  in  cold  remark 
On  outward  things,  with  formal  inference  ends  : 
Or,  if  the  mind  turn  inward,  'tis  perplexed, 
Lost  in  a  gloom  of  uninspired  research  ; 
Meanwhile,  the  heart  within  the  heart,  the  seat 
Where  peace  and  happy  consciousness  should  dwell 
On  its  own  axis  restlessly  revolves, 
Yet  nowhere  finds  the  cheering  light  of  truth. 

' '  Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  earth 
Man  walked  ;  and  when  and  wheresoe'er  he  moved, 
Alone  or  mated,  solitude  was  not. 
He  heard,  upon  the  wind,  the  articulate  voice 
Of  God  ;  and  angels  to  his  sight  appeared, 
Crowning  the  glorious  hills  of  Paradise  ; 
Or  through  the  groves  gliding  like  morning  mist 
Enkindled  by  the  sun.     He  sate — and  talked 
With  winged  messengers  :  who  daily  brought 
To  his  small  island  in  the  ethereal  deep 
Tidings  of  joy  and  love. — From  these  pure  heights 
(Whether  of  actual  vision,  sensible 
To  sight  and  feeling,  or  that  in  this  sort 
Have  condescendingly  been  shadowed  forth 
Communications  spiritually  maintained, 
And  intuitions  moral  and  divine) 
Fell  human-kind — to  banishment  condemned 
That  flowing  years  repealed  not  :  and  distress 
And  grief  spread  wide  ;  but  man  escaped  the  doom 
Of  destitution  ; — solitude  was  not. 
Jehovah — shapeless  Power  above  all  powers, 
Single  and  one,  the  omnipresent  Gcd, 
By  vocal  utterance,  or  blaze  of  light, 
Or  cloud  of  darkness,  localized  in  heaven  ; 
On  earth,  enshrined  within  the  wandering  ark  ; 
Or,  out  of  Sion,  thundering  from  His  throne 
Between  the  cherubim— on  the  chosen  race 


THE  EXCURSION.  401 

Showered  miracles,  and  ceased  not  to  dispense 
Judgments,  that  filled  the  land  from  age  to  age 
With  hope,  and  love,  and  gratitude,  and  fear ; 
And  with  amazement  smote  ; — thereby  to  assert 
His  scorned,  or  unacknowledged  sovereignty. 
And  when  the  One,  ineffable  of  name, 
Of  nature  indivisible,  withdrew 
From  mortal  adoration  or  regard, 
Not  then  was  Ueity  ingulfed,  nor  man, 
The  rational  creature,  left,  to  feel  the  weight 
Of  his  own  reason,  without  sense  or  thought 
Of  higher  reason  and  a  purer  will, 
To  benefit  and  bless,  through  mightier  power  : 
Whether  the  Persian — zealous  to  reject 
Altar  and  image,  and  the  inclusive  walls 
And  roofs  of  temples  built  by  human  hands — 
To  loftiest  heights  ascending,  from  their  tops, 
With  myrtle-wreathed  tiara  on  his  brow, 
Presented  sacrifice  to  moon  and  stars, 
And  to  the  winds  and  mother  elements, 
And  the  whole  circle  of  the  heavens,  for  him 
A  sensitive  existence,  and  a  God, 
With  lifted  hands  invoked,  and  songs  of  praise  '. 
Or,  less  reluctantly  to  bonds  of  sense 
Yielding  his  soul,  the  Babylonian  framed 
For  influence  undefined  a  personal  shape  ; 
And,  from  the  plain,  with  toil  immense,  upreared 
Tower  eight  times  planted  on  the  top  of  tower  ; 
That  Belus,  nightly  to  his  splendid  couch 
Descending,  there  might  rest ;  upon  that  height 
Pure  and  serene,  diffused — to  overlook 
Winding  Euphrates,  and  the  city  vast 
Of  his  devoted  worshippers,  far-stretched, 
With  grove,  and  field,  and  garden,  interspersed  ; 
Their  town,  and  foodful  region  for  support 
Against  the  pressure  of  beleaguering  war. 

"  Chaldean  shepherds,  ranging  trackless  fields, 
Beneath  the  concave  of  unclouded  skies 
Spread  like  a  sea,  in  boundless  solitude, 
Looked  on  the  polar  star,  as  on  a  guide 
And  guardian  of  their  course,  that  never  closed 
His  steadfast  eye.     The  planetary  five 
With  a  submissive  reverence  they  beheld  ; 
Watched,  from  the  centre  of  their  sleeping  flocks 
Those  radiant  Mercuries,  that  seemed  to  move 
Carrying  through  ether,  in  perpetual  round, 
Decrees  and  resolutions  of  the  gods  ; 
And,  by  their  aspects,  signifying  works 
Of  dim  futurity,  to  man  revealed. 
The  imaginative  faculty  was  lord 
Of  observations  natural  ;  and,  thus 
Led  on,  those  shepherds  made  report  of  stars 
In  set  rotation  passing  to  and  fro, 
Between  the  orbs  of  our  apparent  sphere 
And  its  invisible  counterpart,  adorned 
With  answering  constellations,  under  earth, 
Removed  from  all  approach  of  living  sight, 


4.02  THE  EXCURSION. 

But  present  to  the  dead  ;  who,  so  they  deemed, 
Like  those  celestial  messengers  beheld 
All  accidents,  and  judges  were  of  all. 

"The  lively  Grecian,  in  a  land  of  hills, 
Rivers,  and  fertile  plains,  and  sounding  shores, 
Under  a  cope  of  variegated  sky, 
Could  find  commodious  place  for  every  god, 
Promptly  received,  as  prodigally  brought, 
From  the  surrounding  countries,  at  the  choice 
Of  all  adventurers.     With  unrivalled  skill, 
As  nicest  observation  furnished  hints 
For  studious  fancy,  did  his  hand  bestow 
On  fluent  operations  a  fixed  shape  ; 
Metal  or  stone,  idolatrously  served. 
And  yet — triumphant  o'er  this  pompous  show 
Of  art,  this  palpable  array  of  sense, 
On  every  side  encountered  ;  in  despite 
Of  the  gross  fictions,  chanted  in  the  streets 
By  wandering  rhapsodists  ;  and  in  contempt 
Of  doubt  and  bold  denials  hourly  urged 
Amid  the  wrangling  schools — a  spirit  hung, 
Beautiful  region  !  o'er  thy  towns  and  farms, 
Statues  and  temples,  and  memorial  tombs  ; 
And  emanations  were  perceived  ;  and  acts 
Of  immortality,  in  nature's  course, 
Exemplified  by  mysteries,  that  were  felt 
As  bonds,  on  grave  philosopher  imposed 
And  armed  warrior  ;  and  in  every  grove 
A  gay  or  pensive  tenderness  prevailed, 
When  piety  more  awful  had  relaxed. 
'  Take,  running  river,  take  these  locks  of  mine ' — 
Thus  would  the  votary  say — '  this  severed  hair, 
My  vow  fulfilling,  do  I  here  present, 
Thankful  for  my  beloved  child's  return. 
Thy  banks,  Cephisus,  he  again  hath  trod, 
Thy  murmurs  heard  ;  and  drunk  the  crystal  lymph 
With  which  thou  dost  refresh  the  thirsty  lip, 
And  moisten  all  day  long  these  flowery  fields  !' 
And  doubtless,  sometimes,  when  the  hair  was  shed 
Upon  the  flowing  stream,  a  thought  arose 
Of  life  continuous — being  unimpaired  ! 
That  hath  been,  is,  and  where  it  was  and  is 
There  shall  endure, — existence  unexposed 
To  the  blind  walk  of  mortal  accident  ; 
From  diminution  safe  and  weakening  age  ; 
While  man  grows  old,  and  dwindles,  and  decays  ; 
And  countless  generations  of  mankind 
Depart;  and  leave  no  vestige  where  they  trod. 

"We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love  ; 
And  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fixed, 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend. 
But  what  is  error  ?"     "Answer  he  who  can  !" 
The  sceptic  somewhat  haughtily  exclaimed, 
"  Love,  hope,  and  admiration — are  they  not 
Mad  fancy's  favourite  vassals  ?     Does  not  Life 
Use  them,  full  oft,  as  pioneers  to  ruin, 


THE  EXCURSION.  403 

Guides  to  destruction?    Is  it  well  to  trust 
Imagination's  light  when  reason's  fails, 
The  unguarded  taper  where  the  guarded  faints  ? 
Stoop  from  those  heights,  and  soberly  declare 
What  error  is  ;  and,  of  our  errors,  which 
Doth  most  debase  the  mind  ;  the  genuine  seats 
Of  power,  where  are  they?     Who  shall  regulate 
With  truth  the  scale  of  intellectual  rank?" 

"  Methinks,"  persuasively  the  sage  replied, 
' '  That  for  this  arduous  office  you  possess 
Some  rare  advantages.     Your  early  days 
A  grateful  recollection  must  supply 
Of  much  exalted  good  by  Heaven  vouchsafed 
To  dignify  the  humblest  state. — Your  voice 
Hath,  in  my  hearing,  often  testified 
That  poor  men's  children,  they,  and  they  alone, 
By  their  condition  taught,  can  understand 
The  wisdom  of  the  prayer  that  daily  asks 
For  daily  bread.     A  consciousness  is  yours 
How  feelingly  religion  may  be  learned 
In  smoky  cabins,  from  a  mother's  tongue — 
Heard  while  the  dwelling  vibrates  to  the  din 
Of  the  contiguous  torrent,  gathering  strength 
At  every  moment — and,  with  strength,  increase 
Of  fury  ;  or,  while  snow  is  at  the  door, 
Assaulting  and  defending,  and  the  wind, 
A  sightless  labourer,  whistles  at  his  work- 
Fearful,  but  resignation  tempers  fear, 
And  piety  is  sweet  to  infant  minds. 
The  shepherd  lad,  who  in  the  sunshine  carves, 
On  the  green  turf,  a  dial — to  divide 
The  silent  hours ;  and  who  to  that  report 
Can  portion  out  his  pleasures,  and  adapt 
His  round  of  pastoral  duties,  is  not  left 
With  less  intelligence  for  moral  things 
Of  gravest  import.     Early  he    erceives, 
Within  himself,  a  measure  and  a  rule, 
Which  to  the  sun  of  truth  he  can  apply, 
That  shines  for  him,  and  shines  for  all  mankind. 
Experience  daily  fixing  his  regards 
On  nature's  wants,  he  knows  how  few  they  are, 
And  where  they  lie,  how  answered  and  appeased. 
This  knowledge  ample  recompense  affords 
For  manifold  privations  ;  he  refers 
His  notions  to  this  standard  ;  on  this  rock 
Rests  his  desires  ;  and  hence,  in  after  life, 
Soul-strengthening  patience,  and  sublime  content. 
Imagination— not  permitted  here 
To  waste  her  powers,  as  in  the  worldling's  mind, 
On  fickle  pleasures,  and  superfluous  cares, 
And  trivial  ostentation — is  left  free 
And  puissant  to  range  the  solemn  walks 
Of  time  and  nature,  girded  by  a  zone 
That,  while  it  binds,  invigorates  and  supports. 
Acknowledge,  then,  that  whether  by  the  side 
Of  his  poor  hut,  or  on  the  mountain  top, 
Or  in  the  cultured  field,  a  man  so  bred 


404  TEE  EXCURSION. 

(Take  from  him  what  you  will  upon  the  score 

Of  ignorance  or  illusion)  lives  and  breathes 

For  noble  purposes  of  mind  :  his  heart 

Beats  to  the  heroic  song  of  ancient  days  ; 

His  eye  distinguishes,  his  soul  creates. 

And  those  illusions,  which  excite  the  scorn 

Or  move  the  pity  of  unthinking  minds, 

Are  they  not  mainly  outward  ministers 

Of  inward  conscience  ?  with  whose  service  charged 

They  come  and  go,  appear  and  disappear, 

Diverting  evil  purposes,  remorse 

Awakening,  chastening  an  intemperate  grief, 

Or  pride  of  heart  abating  :  and,  whene'er 

For  less  important  ends  those  phantoms  move, 

Who  would  forbid  them,  if  their  presence  serve, 

Among  wild  mountains  and  unpeopled  heaths, 

Filling  a  space,  else  vacant,  to  exalt 

The  forms  of  nature,  and  enlarge  her  powers  ? 

"Once more  to  distant  ages  of  the  world 
Let  us  revert,  and  place  before  our  thoughts 
The  face  which  rural  solitude  might  wear 
To  the  unenlightened  swains  of  pagan  Greece. 
In  that  fair  clime,  the  lonely  herdsman,  stretched 
3n  the  soft  grass  through  half  a  summer's  day, 
With  music  lulled  his  indolent  repose  : 
And,  in  some  fit  of  weariness,  if  he, 
When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 
A  distant  strain,  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 
Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  fancy  fetched, 
Even  from  the  blazing  chariot  of  the  sun, 
A  beardless  youth,  who  touched  a  golden  lute, 
And  filled  the  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 
The  nightly  hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 
Towards  the  crescent  moon,  with  grateful  heart 
Called  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestowed 
That  timely  light,  to  share  his  joyous  sport : 
And  hence,  a  beaming  goddess  with  her  nymphs, 
Across  the  lawn  and  through  the  darksome  grove 
(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes 
By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave) 
Swept  in  the  storm  of  chase,  as  moon  and  stars 
Glance  rapidly  along  the  clouded  heaven, 
When  winds  are  blowing  strong.     The  traveller  slaked 
His  thirst  from  rill  or  gushing  fount,  and  thanked 
The  Naiad. — Sunbeams,  upon  distant  hills 
Gliding  apace,  with  shadows  in  their  train, 
■Might,  with  small  help  from  fancy,  be  transformed 
Into  fleet  Oreads  sporting  visibly. 
The  Zephyrs,  fanning  as  they  passed,  their  wings, 
Lacked  not,  for  love,  fair  objects,  whom  they  wooed 
With  gentle  whisper.     Withered  boughs  grotesque, 
Stripped  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 
From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth 
In  the  low  vale,  or  on  steep  mountain  side  ; 
And,  sometimes,  intermixed  with  stirring  horns 
Of  the  live  deer,  or  goat's  depending  beard, — 
These  were  the  lurking  satyrs,  a  wild  brood 


THE  EXCURSION.  405 

Of  gamesome  deities  ;  or  Pan  himself, 
The  simple  shepherd's  awe-inspiring  god  !" 

As  (his  apt  strain  proceeded,  I  could  mark 
Its  kindly  influence,  o'er  the  yielding  brow 
Of  our  companion,  gradually  diffused  ; 
While,  listening,  he  had  paced  the  noiseless  turf, 
Like  one  whose  untried  ear  a  murmuring  stream 
Detains  ;  but  tempted  now  to  interpose, 
He  with  a  smile  exclaimed — 

"  Tis  well  you  speak 
At  a  safe  distance  from  our  native  land, 
And  from  the  mansions  where  our  youth  was  taught. 
The  true  descendants  of  those  godly  men 
Who  swept  from  Scotland,  in  a  flame  of  zeal, 
Shrine,  altar,  image,  and  the  massy  piles 
That  harboured  them, — the  souls  retaining  yet 
The  churlish  features  of  that  after  race 
Who  fled  to  caves,  and  woods,  and  naked  rocks, 
In  deadly  scorn  of  superstitious  rites, 
Or  what  their  scruples  construed  to  be  such — 
How,  think  you,  would  they  tolerate  this  scheme 
Of  fine  propensities,  that  tends,  if  urged 
Far  as  it  might  be  urged,  to  sow  afresh 
The  weeds  of  Romish  phantasy,  in  vain 
Uprooted  ;  would  re-consecrate  our  wells 
To  good  Saint  Fillan  and  to  fair  Saint  Anne  ; 
And  from  long  banishment  recall  Saint  Giles, 
To  watch  again  with  tutelary  love 
O'er  stately  Edinburgh  throned  on  crags  ? 
A  blessed  restoration,  to  behold 
The  patron,  on  the  shoulders  of  his  priests, 
Once  more  parading  through  her  crowded  streets  ; 
Now  simply  guarded  by  the  sober  powers 
Of  science,  and  philosophy,  and  sense  !" 

This  answer  followed — "  You  have  turned  my  thoughts 
Upon  our  brave  progenitors,  who  rose 
Against  idolatry  with  warlike  mind, 
And  shrunk  from  vain  observances,  to  lurk 
In  caves,  and  woods,  and  under  dismal  rocks, 
Deprived  of  shelter,  covering,  fire,  and  food. 
Why  ? — for  this  very  reason  that  they  felt, 
And  did  acknowledge,  wheresoe'er  they  moved, 
A  spiritual  presence,  oft-times  misconceived  ; 
But  still  a  high  dependence,  a  divine 
Bounty  and  government,  that  filled  their  hearts 
With  joy,  and  gratitude,  and  fear,  and  love  ; 
And  from  their  fervent  lips  drew  hymns  of  praise, 
That  through  the  desert  rang.     Though    avoured  less, 
Far  less,  than  these,  yet  such,  in  their  degree, 
Were  those  bewildered  pagans  of  old  time. 
Beyond  their  own  poor  natures  and  above 
They  looked  ;   were  humbly  thankful  for  the  good 
Which  the  warm  sun  solicited — and  earth 
Bestowed  ;  were  gladsome, — and  their  moral  sense 
They  fortified  with  reverence  for  the  gods  ; 
And  they  had  hopes  that  overstepped  the  grave. 


4-06  THE  EXCURSION. 

"  Now,  shall  our  great  discoverers,"  he  exclaimed, 
Raising  his  voice  triumphantly,  "  obtain 
From  sense  and  reason  less  than  these  obtained, 
Though  far  misled  ?    Shall  men  for  whom  our  age 
Unbaffled  powers  of  vision  hath  prepared, 
To  explore  the  world  without  and  world  within, 
Be  joyless  as  the  blind  ?    Ambitious  souls — 
Whom  earth,  at  this  late  season,  hath  produced 
To  regulate  the  moving  spheres,  and  weigh 
The  planets  in  the  hollow  of  their  hand  ; 
And  they  who  rather  dive  than  soar,  whose  pains 
Have  solved  the  elements,  or  analysed 
The  thinking  principle — shall  they  in  fact 
Prove  a  degraded  race  ?  and  what  avails 
Renown,  if  their  presumption  make  them  such  ? 
Oh  !  there  is  laughter  at  their  work  in  heaven  ! 
Inquire  of  ancient  wisdom  ;  go,  demand 
Of  mighty  nature,  if  'twas  ever  meant 
That  we  should  pry  far  off,  yet  be  unraised  ; 
That  we  should  pore,  and  dwindle  as  we  pore, 
Viewing  all  objects  unremittingly 
In  disconnexion  dead  and  spiritless  ; 
And  still  dividing,  and  dividing  still, 
Break  down  all  grandeur,  still  unsatisfied 
With  the  perverse  attempt,  while  littleness 
May  yet  become  more  little  ;  waging  thus 
An  impious  warfare  with  the  very  life 
Of  our  own  souls  ! — And  if  indeed  there  be 
An  all-pervading  spirit,  tipon  whom 
Our  dark  foundations  rest,  could  He  design 
That  this  magnificent  effect  of  power, 
The  earth  we  tread,  the  sky  that  we  behold 
By  day,  and  all  the  pomp  which  night  reveals, 
That  these — and  that  superior  mystery 
Our  vital  frame,  so  fearfully  devised, 
And  the  dread  soul  within  it — should  exist 
Only  to  be  examined,  pondered,  searched, 
Probed,  vexed,  and  criticised  ? — Accuse  me  not 
Of  arrogance,  unknown  wanderer  as  I  am, 
If,  having  walked  with  nature  threescore  years, 
And  offered,  far  as  frailty  would  allow, 
My  heart  a  daily  sacrifice  to  truth, 
I  now  affirm  of  nature  and  of  truth, 
Whom  I  have  served,  that  their  Divinity 
Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  men 
Swayed  by  such  motives,  to  such  end  employed  ; 
Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  soul 
Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 
This  soul,  and  the  transcendent  universe, 
No  more  than  as  a  mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  self-love  her  own  intelligence  ; 
That  one,  poor,  finite  object,  in  the  abyss 
Of  infinite  being,  twinkling  restlessly  ! 

"  Nor  higher  place  can  be  assigned  to  him 
And  his  compeers — the  laughing  sage  of  France. 
Crowned  was  he,  if  my  memory  do  not  err, 


TEE  EXCURSION.  407 

With  laurel  planted  upon  hoary  hairs, 

In  sign  of  conquest  by  his  wit  achieved, 

And  benefits  his  wisdom  had  conferred. 

His  tottering  body  was  with  WTeaths  of  flowers 

Opprest,  far  less  becoming  ornaments 

Than  spring  oft  twines  about  a  mouldering  tree  ; 

Yet  so  it  pleased  a  fond,  a  vain  old  man, 

And  a  most  frivolous  people.     Him  I  mean 

Who  penned,  to  ridicule  confiding  faith, 

This  sorry  legend  ;  which  by  chance  we  found 

Piled  in  a  nook,  through  malice,  as  might  seem. 

Among  more  innocent  rubbish." — Speaking  thus, 

With  a  brief  notice  when,  and  how,  and  where, 

We  had  espied  the  book,  he  drew  it  forth  ; 

And  courteously,  as  if  the  act  removed, 

At  once,  all  traces  from  the  good  man's  heart 

Of  unbenign  aversion  or  contempt, 

Restored  it  to  its  owner.     "  Gentle  friend," 

Herewith  he  grasped  the  Solitary's  hand, 

"  You  have  known  better  lights  and  guides  than  these — 

Ah  !  let  not  aught  amiss  within  dispose 

A  noble  mind  to  practise  on  herself, 

And  tempt  opinion  to  support  the  wrongs 

Of  passion  :  whatsoe'er  be  felt  or  feared, 

From  higher  judgment-seats  make  no  appeal 

To  lower  :  can  you  question  that  the  soul 

Inherits  an  allegiance,  not  by  choice 

To  be  cast  off,  upon  an  oath  proposed 

By  each  new  upstart  notion?     In  the  ports 

Of  levity  no  refuge  can  be  found, 

No  shelter,  for  a  spirit  in  distress. 

He,  who  by  wilful  disesteem  of  life, 

And  proud  insensibility  to  hope 

Affronts  the  eye  of  solitude,  shall  learn 

That  her  mild  nature  can  be  terrible  ; 

That  neither  she  nor  silence  lack  the  power 

To  avenge  their  own  insulted  majesty. 

O  blest  seclusion  !  when  the  mind  admits 

The  law  of  duty  ;  and  can  therefore  move 

Through  each  vicissitude  of  loss  and  gain, 

Linked  in  entire  complacence  with  her  choice  ; 

When  youth's  presumptuousness  is  mellowed  down, 

And  manhood's  vain  anxiety  dismissed  ; 

When  wisdom  shows  her  seasonable  fruit, 

Upon  the  boughs  of  sheltering  leisure  hung 

In  sober  plenty  ;  when  the  spirit  stoops 

To  drink  with  gratitude  the  crystal  stream 

Of  unreproved  enjoyment ;  and  is  pleased 

To  muse, — and  be  saluted  by  the  air 

Of  meek  repentance,  wafting  wall-flower  scents 

From  out  the  crumbling  ruins  of  fallen  pride 

And  chambers  of  transgression,  now  forlorn. 

Oh,  calm  contented  days,  and  peaceful  nights  ! 

Who,  when  such  good  can  be  obtained,  would  strive 

To  reconcile  his  manhood  to  a  couch 

Soft,  as  may  seem,  but,  under  that  disguise, 

Stuffed  with  the  thorny  substance  of  the  past, 

For  fixed  annoyance  ;  and  full  oft  beset 

2  F 


TEE  EXCURSION. 

With  floating  dreams,  disconsolate  and  black, 
The  vapoury  phantoms  of  futurity  ? 

"  Within  the  soul  a  faculty  abides, 
That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp  ;  and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness.     As  the  ample  moon, 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove, 
Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light, 
In  the  green  trees  ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own, 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene  ;  like  power  abides 
In  man's  celestial  spirit ;  virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself ;  thus  feeds 
A  calm,  a  beautiful,  and  silent  fire, 
From  the  incumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment, — nay,  from  guilt ; 
And  sometimes,  so  relenting  justice  wills, 
From  palpable  oppressions  of  despair." 

The  Solitary  by  these  words  was  touched 
With  manifest  emotion,  and  exclaimed, 
"  But  how  begin  ?  and  whence? — The  mind  is  free ; 
Resolve' — the  haughty  moralist  would  say, 
■  This  single  act  is  all  that  we  demand.' 
Alas  !  such  wisdom  bids  a  creature  fly 
Whose  very  sorrow  is,  that  time  hath  shorn 
His  natural  wings  ! — To  friendship  let  him  turn 
For  succour  ;  but  perhaps  he  sits  alone 
On  stormy  waters,  in  a  little  boat 
That  holds  but  him,  and  can  contain  no  more  ! 
Religion  tells  of  amity  sublime 
Which  no  condition  can  preclude  ;  of  One 
Who  sees  all  suffering,  comprehends  all  wants, 
All  weakness  fathoms,  can  supply  all  needs  ; 
But  is  that  bounty  absolute? — His  gifts, 
Are  they  not  still,  in  some  degree,  rewards 
For  acts  of  service?    Can  His  love  extend 
To  hearts  that  own  not  Him?    Will  showers  of  grace, 
When  in  the  sky  no  promise  may  be  seen, 
Fall  to  refresh  a  parched  and  withered  land? 
Or  shall  the  groaning  spirit  cast  her  load 
At  the  Redeemer's  feet?" 

In  rueful  tone, 
With  some  impatience  in  his  mien,  he  spake  ; 
Back  to  my  mind  rushed  all  that  had  been  urged 
To  calm  the  sufferer  when  his  story  closed  ; 
I  looked  for  counsel  as  unbending  now  ; 
But  a  discriminating  sympathy 
Stooped  to  this  apt  reply. — 

"As  men  from  men 
Do,  in  the  constitution  of  their  souls, 
Differ,  by  mystery  not  to  be  explained  ; 
And  as  we  fall  by  various  ways,  and  sink 


TEE  EXCURSION. 


409 


One  deeper  than  another,  self-condemned, 

Through  manifold  degrees  of  guilt  and  shame, 

So  manifold  and  various  are  the  ways 

Of  restoration,  fashioned  to  the  steps 

Of  all  infirmity,  and  tending  all 

To  the  same  point,— attainable  by  all ; 

Peace  in  ourselves,  and  union  with  our  God. 

For  you,  assuredly,  a  hopeful  road 

Lies  open  :  we  have  heard  from  you  a  voice 

At  every  moment  softened  in  its  course 

By  tenderness  of  heart ;  have  seen  your  eye, 

Even  like  an  altar  lit  by  fire  from  heaven, 

Kindle  before  us.— Your  discourse  this  day, 

That,  like  the  fabled  Lethe,  wished  to  flow 

In  creeping  sadness,  through  oblivious  shades 

Of  death  and  night,  has  caught  at  every  turn 

The  colours  of  the  sun.     Access  for  you 

Is  yet  preserved  to  principles  of  truth, 

Which  the  imaginative  will  upholds 

In  seats  of  wisdom,  not  to  be  approached 

By  the  inferior  faculty  that  moulds, 

With  her  minute  and  speculative  pains, 

Opinion,  ever  changing  !— I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 

Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 

To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 

Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 

Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  murmurings  from  withia 

Were  heard,  sonorous  cadences  !  whereby 

To  his  belief,  the  monitor  expressed 

Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 

Is  to  the  ear  of  faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 

I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power  ; 

And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 

Of  endless  agitation.     Here  you  stand, 

Adore,  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not  ; 

Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought ; 

Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 

The  estate  of  man  would  be  indeed  forlorn 

If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  power 

Made  the  eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 

Through  which  the  ear  converses  with  the  heart. 

Has  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life, 

Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 

In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks 

At  night's  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  sky. 

To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls  ; 

A  temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast, 

And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 

Of  human  anthems,— choral  song,  or  burst 

Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony, 

To  glorify  the  Eternal  !  What  if  these 

Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevail 


410  THE  EXCURSION. 

Here,  if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute, 
And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 
Her  vespers,  nature  fails  not  to  provide 
Impulse  and  utterance.     The  whispering  air 
Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights, 
And  blind  recesses  of  the  caverned  rocks  ; 
The  little  rills,  and  waters  numberless, 
Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 
With  the  loud  streams  :  and  often,  at  the  hour 
When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard, 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge, 
One  voice — the  solitary  raven,  flying 
Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark-blue  dome, 
Unseen,  perchance  above  all  power  of  sight — 
An  iron  knell  !  with  echoes  from  afar 
Faint — and  still  fainter — as  the  cry,  with  which 
The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 
Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear, 
Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seemed 
To  expire,  yet  from  the  abyss  is  caught  again 
And  yet  again  recovered  ! 

But  descending 
From  these  imaginative  heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  eternity, 
Acknowledge  that  to  nature's  humbler  power 
Your  cherished  sullenness  is  forced  to  bend 
Even  here,  where  her  amenities  are  sown 
With  sparing  hand.     Then  trust  yourself  abroad 
To  range  her  blooming  bowers,  and  spacious  fields, 
Where  on  the  labours  of  the  happy  throng 
She  smiles,  including  in  her  wide  embrace 
City,  and  town,  and  tower, — and  sea  with  ships 
Sprinkled  ; — be  our  companion  while  we  track 
Her  rivers  populous  with  gliding  life  ; 
While,  free  as  air,  o'er  printless  sands  we  march, 
Or  pierce  the  gloom  of  her  majestic  woods  ; 
Roaming,  or  resting  under  grateful  shade 
In  peace  and  meditative  cheerfulness  ; 
Where  living  things,  and  things  inanimate, 
Do  speak,  at  Heaven's  command,  to  eye  and  ear, 
And  speak  to  social  reason's  inner  sense. 
With  inarticulate  language. 

For  the  man 
Who,  in  this  spirit,  communes  with  the  forms 
Of  nature,  who  with  understanding  heart 
Doth  know  and  love  such  objects  as  excite 
No  morbid  passions,  no  disquietude, 
No  vengeance,  and  no  hatred,  needs  must  feel 
The  joy  of  that  pure  principle  of  love 
So  deeply,  that,  unsatisfied  with  aught 
Less  pure  and  exquisite,  he  cannot  choose 
But  seek  for  objects  of  a  kindred  love 
In  fellow-natures,  and  a  kindred  joy. 
Accordingly  he  by  degrees  perceives 
His  feelings  of  aversion  softened  down  ; 
A  holy  tenderness  pervade  his  frame. 
His  sanity  of  reason  not  impaired, 
Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear, 


THE  EXCURSION.  411 

From  a  clear  fountain  flowing,  he  looks  round 

And  seeks  for  good  ;  and  finds  the  good  he  seeks  ; 

Until  abhorrence  and  contempt  are  things 

He  only  knows  by  name  ;  and  if  he  hear, 

From  other  mouths,  the  language  which  they  speak, 

He  is  compassionate  ;  and  has  no  thought, 

No  feeling,  which  can  overcome  his  love. 

"  And  further;  by  contemplating  these  forms 

In  the  relations  which  they  bear  to  man, 

He  shall  discern,  how,  through  the  various 

Which  silently  they  yield,  are  multiplied 

The  spiritual  presences  of  absent  things. 

Trust  me,  that  for  the  instructed,  time  will  come 

When  they  shall  meet  no  object  but  may  teach 

Some  acceptable  lesson  to  their  minds 

Of  human  suffering,  or  of  human  joy. 

So  shall  they  learn,  while  all  things  speak  of  man, 

Their  duties  from  all  forms  ;  and  general  laws, 

And  local  accidents,  shall  tend  alike 

To  rouse,  to  urge  ;  and,  with  the  will,  confer 

The  ability  to  spread  the  blessings  wide 

Of  true  philanthropy.     The  light  of  love 

Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 

Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirmed 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  sense  is  made 

Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 

Auxiliar  to  divine.     That  change  shall  clothe 

The  naked  spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 

The  burthen  of  existence.     Science  then 

Shall  be  a  precious  visitant  ;  and  then, 

And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name. 

For  then  her  heart  shall  kindle  ;  her  dull  eye, 

Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 

Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery  ; 

But  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 

The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 

Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 

Shall  it  forget  that  its  most  noble  use, 

Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 

In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a  support 

Not  treacherous,  to  the  mind's  excursive  power. 

So  build  we  up  the  being  that  we  are  ; 

Thus  deeply  drinking-in  the  soul  of  things 

We  shall  be  wise  perforce  ;  and  while  inspired 

By  choice,  and  conscious  that  the  will  is  free, 

Unswerving  shall  we  move  ;  as  if  impelled 

By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 

Of  order  and  of  good.     Whate'er  we  see, 

Whate'er  we  feel,  by  agency  direct 

Or  indirect  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse 

Our  faculties,  shall  fix  in  calmer  seats 

Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 

Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul." 

Here  closed  the  sage  that  eloquent  harangue. 
Poured  forth  with  fervour  in  continuous  stream  ; 
Such  as,  remote  'mid  savage  wilderness, 


412  THE  EXCURSION. 

An  Indian  chief  discharges  from  his  breast 
Into  the  hearing  of  assembled  tribes, 
In  open  circle  seated  round,  and  hushed 
As  the  unbreathing  air,  when  not  a  leaf 
Stirs  in  the  mighty  woods. — So  did  he  speak  : 
The  words  he  uttered  shall  not  pass  away  ; 
For  they  sank  into  me — the  bounteous  gift 
Of  one  whom  time  and  nature  had  made  wise, 
Gracing  his  language  with  authority 
Which  hostile  spirits  silently  allow  ; 
Of  one  accustomed  to  desires  that  feed 
On  fruitage  gathered  from  the  tree  of  life  ; 
To  hopes  on  knowledge  and  experience  built ; 
Of  one  in  whom  persuasion  and  belief 
Had  ripened  into  faith,  and  faith  become 
A  passionate  intuition  ;  whence  the  soul, 
Though  bound  to  earth  by  ties  of  pity  and  love, 
From  all  injurious  servitude  was  free. 

The  sun,  before  his  place  of  rest  were  reached, 
Had  yet  to  travel  far,  but  unto  us, 
To  us  who  stood  low  in  that  hollow  dell, 
He  had  become  invisible, — a  pomp 
Leaving  behind  of  yellow  radiance  spread 
Upon  the  mountain  sidev  in  contrast  bold 
With  ample  shadows,  seemingly  no  less 
Than  those  resplendent  lights,  his  rich  bequest, 
A  dispensation  of  his  evening  power. 
Adown  the  path  that  from  the  glen  had  led 
The  funeral  train,  the  shepherd  and  his  mate 
Were  seen  descending  ;  forth  to  greet  them  ran 
Our  little  page  ;  the  rustic  pair  approach  ; 
And  in  the  matron's  aspect  may  be  read 
A  plain  assurance  that  the  words  which  told 
How  that  neglected  pensioner  was  sent 
Before  his  time  into  a  quiet  grave, 
Had  done  to  her  humanity  no  wrong  : 
But  we  are  kindly  welcomed — promptly  served 
With  ostentatious  zeal. — Along  the  floor 
Of  the  small  cottage  in  the  lonely  dell 
A  grateful  couch  was  spread  for  our  repose  ; 
Where,  in  the  guise  of  mountaineers,  we  slept, 
Stretched  upon  fragrant  heath,  and  lulled  by  sound 
Of  far-off  torrents  charming  the  still  night, 
And  to  tired  limbs  and  over-busy  thoughts 
Inviting  sleep  and  soft  forgetfulness. 


BOOK  V. 


ARGUMENT. 


Farewell  to  the  valley — Reflections— Sight  of  a  large  and  populous  vale — Solitary  consents  to  go 
forward — Vale  described — The  pastor's  dwelling,  and  some  account  of  him — The  churchyard — 
Church  and  monuments — The  Solitary  musing,  and  where — Roused — In  the  churchyard  the 
Solitary  communicates  the  thoughts  which  had  recently  passed  through  his  mind — Lofty  tone 
of  the  Wanderer's  discourse  of  yesterday  adverted  to— Rite  of  baptism,  and  the  professions 


TEE  EXCURSION.  413 

accompanying  it,  contrasted  with  the  real  state  of  human  life— Inconsistency  of  the  best  men 
— Acknowledgment  that  practice  falls  far  below  the  injunctions  of  duty  as  existing  in  the  mind 
—General  complaint  of  a  falling-orf  in  the  value  of  life  after  the  time  of  youth— Outward 
appearances  of  content  and  happiness  in  degree  illusive — Pastor  approaches — Appeal  made  to 
him— His  answer — Wanderer  in  sympathy  with  him— Suggestion  that  the  least  ambitious 
inquirers  may  be  most  free  from  error — The  pastor  is  desired  to  give  some  portraits  of  the  living 
or  dead  from  his  own  observation  of  life  among  these  mountains — and  for  what  purpose — 
Pastor  consents — Mountain  cottage — Excellent  qualities  of  its  inhabitants — Solitary  expresses 
his  pleasure  ;  but  denies  the  praise  of  virtue  to  worth  of  this  kind — Feelings  of  the  priest  before 
he  enters  upon  his  account  of  persons  interred  in  the  churchyard— Graves  of  unbaptized  infants 
— What  sensations  they  excite — Funeral  and  sepulchral  observances,  whence— Ecclesiastical 
establishments,  whence  derived— Profession  of  belief  in  the  doctrine  of  immortality. 

THE  PASTOR. 

Farewell,  deep  valley,  with  thy  one  rude  house, 

And  its  small  lot  of  life-supporting  fields, 

And  guardian  rocks!— Farewell,  attractive  seat  ! 

To  the  still  influx  of  the  morning  light 

Open,  and  day's  pure  cheerfulness,  but  veiled 

From  human  observation,  as  if  yet 

Primeval  forests  wrapped  thee  round  with  dark 

Impenetrable  shade  ;  once  more  farewell, 

Majestic  circuit,  beautiful  abyss, 

By  nature  destined  from  the  birth  of  things, 

For  quietness  profound  ! 

Upon  the  side 
Of  that  brown  slope,  the  outlet  of  the  vale, 
Lingering  behind  my  comrades,  thus  I  breathed 
A  parting  tribute  to  a  spot  that  seemed 
Like  the  fixed  centre  of  a  troubled  world. 
And  now,  pursuing  leisurely  my  way, 
How  vain,  thought  I,  it  is  by  change  of  place 
To  seek  that  comfort  which  the  mind  denies  ; 
Yet  trial  and  temptation  oft  are  shunned 
Wisely  ;  and  by  such  tenure  do  we  hold 
Frail  life's  possessions,  that  even  they  whose  fate 
Yields  no  peculiar  reason  of  complaint 
Might,  by  the  promise  that  is  here,  be  won 
To  steal  from  active  duties,  and  embrace 
Obscurity,  and  calm  forgetfulness. 
Knowledge,  methinks,  in  these  disordered  times. 
Should  be  allowed  a  privilege  to  have 
Her  anchorites,  like  piety  of  old  ; 
Men,  who,  from  faction  sacred,  and  unstained 
By  war,  might,  if  so  minded,  turn  aside 
Uncensured,  and  subsist,  a  scattered  few 
Living  to  God  and  nature,  and  content 
With  that  communion.     Consecrated  be 
The  spots  where  such  abide  !     But  happier  still 
The  man,  whom,  furthermore,  a  hope  attends 
That  meditation  and  research  may  guide 
His  privacy  to  principles  and  powers 
Discovered  or  invented  ;  or  set  forth, 
Through  his  acquaintance  with  the  ways  of  truth, 
In  lucid  order  ;  so  that,  when  his  course 
Is  run,  some  faithful  eulogist  may  say, 
He  sought  not  praise,  and  praise  did  overlook 
His  unobtrusive  merit  ;  but  his  life, 


414  THE  EXCUBSION. 

Sweet  to  himself,  was  exercised  in  good 
That  shall  survive  his  name  and  memory. 

Acknowledgments  of  gratitude  sincere 
Accompanied  these  musings  ;  fervent  thanks 
For  my  own  peaceful  lot  and  happy  choice  ; 
A  choice  that  from  the  passions  of  the  world 
Withdrew,  and  fixed  me  in  a  still  retreat, 
Sheltered,  but  not  to  social  duties  lost ; 
Secluded,  but  not  buried  ;  and  with  song 
Cheering  my  days,  and  with  industrious  thought, 
With  ever-welcome  company  of  books, 
By  virtuous  friendship's  soul-sustaining  aid, 
And  with  the  blessings  of  domestic  love. 

Thus  occupied  in  mind  I  paced  along, 
Following  the  rugged  road,  by  sledge  or  wheel, 
Worn  in  the  moorland,  till  I  overtook 
My  two  associates,  in  the  morning  sunshine 
Halting  together  on  a  rocky  knoll, 
From  which  the  road  descended  rapidly 
To  the  green  meadows  of  another  vale. 

Here  did  our  pensive  host  put  forth  his  hand 
In  sign  of  farewell.     "  Nay,"  the  old  man  said, 
' '  The  fragrant  air  its  coolness  still  retains  ; 
The  herds  and  flocks  are  yet  abroad  to  crop 
The  dewy  grass  ;  you  cannot  leave  us  now, 
We  must  not  part  at  this  inviting  hour." 
He  yielded,  though  reluctant  ;  for  his  mind 
Instinctively  disposed  him  to  retire 
To  his  own  covert  ;  as  a  billow,  heaved 
Upon  the  beach,  rolls  back  into  the  sea. 
So  we  descend  ;  and  winding  round  a  rock 
Attain  a  point  that  showed  the  valley — stretched 
In  length  before  us  ;  and,  not  distant  far, 
Upon  a  rising  ground  a  gray  church-tower, 
Whose  battlements  were  screened  by  tufted  trees. 
And,  towards  a  crystal  mere,  that  lay  beyond 
Among  steep  hills  and  woods  embosomed,  flowed 
A  copious  stream  with  boldly-winding  course ; 
Here  traceable,  there  hidden — there  again 
To  sight  restored,  and  glittering  in  the  sun. 
On  the  stream's  bank,  and  everywhere,  appeared 
Fair  dwellings,  single,  or  in  social  knots  ; 
Some  scattered  o'er  the  level,  others  perched 
On  the  hill  sides,  a  cheerful  quiet  scene, 
Now  in  its  morning  purity  arrayed. 

"As,  'mid  some  .happy  valley  of  the  Alps," 
Said  I,  "once  happy,  ere  tyrannic  power, 
Wantonly  breaking  in  upon  the  Swiss, 
Destroyed  their  unoffending  commonwealth, 
A  popular  equality  reigns  here, 
Save  for  one  house  of  state  beneath  whose  roof 
A  rural  lord  might  dwell."     "  No  feudal  pomp," 
Replied  our  friend,  a  chronicler  who  stood 
Where'er  he  moved  upon  familiar  ground, 
"  Nor  feudal  power  is  there  ;  but  there  abides, 


THE  EXCURSION.  415 

Tn  his  allotted  home,  a  genuine  priest, 

The  shepherd  of  his  flock  ;  or,  as  a  king 

Is  styled,  when  most  affectionately  praised, 

The  father  of  his  people.     Such  is  he  ; 

And  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old,  rejoice 

Under  his  spiritual  sway.     He  hath  vouchsafed 

To  me  some  portions  of  a  kind  regard  ; 

And  something  also  of  his  inner  mind 

Hath  he  imparted — but  1  speak  of  him 

As  he  is  known  to  all.     The  calm  delights 

Of  unambitious  piety  he  chose, 

And  learning's  solid  dignity  ;  though  born 

Of  knightly  race,  nor  wanting  powerful  friends, 

Hither,  in  prime  of  manhood,  he  withdrew 

From  academic  bowers.     He  loved  the  spot, 

Who  does  not  love  his  native  soil  ?     He  prized 

The  ancient  rural  character,  composed 

Of  simple  manners,  feelings  unsuppressed 

And  undisguised,  and  strong  and  serious  thought ; 

A  character  reflected  in  himself, 

With  such  embellishment  as  well  beseems 

His  rank  and  sacred  function.     This  deep  vale 

Winds  far  in  reaches  hidden  from  our  eyes, 

And  one  a  turreted  manorial  hall 

Adorns,  in  which  the  good  man's  ancestors 

Have  dwelt  through  ages — patrons  of  this  cure. 

To  them,  and  to  his  own  judicious  pains, 

The  vicar's  dwelling,  and  the  whole  domain, 

Owes  that  presiding  aspect  which  might  well 

Attract  your  notice  ;  statelier  than  could  else 

Have  been  bestowed,  through  course  of  common  chance, 

On  an  unwealthy  mountain  benefice." 

This  said,  oft  halting  we  pursued  our  way  ; 
Nor  reached  the  village  churchyard  till  the  sun, 
Travelling  at  steadier  pace  than  ours,  had  risen, 
Above  the  summits  of  the  highest  hills, 
And  round  our  path  darted  oppressive  beams. 

As  chanced,  the  portals  of  the  sacred  pile 
Stood  open,  and  we  entered.     On  my  frame, 
At  such  transition  from  the  fervid  air, 
A  grateful  coolness  fell,  that  seemed  to  strike 
The  heart,  in  concert  with  that  temperate  awe 
And  natural  reverence,  which  the  place  inspired. 
Not  raised  in  nice  proportions  was  the  pile, 
But  large  and  massy  ;  for  duration  built ; 
With  pillars  crowded,  and  the  roof  upheld 
By  naked  rafters  intricately  crossed, 
Like  leafless  underboughs,  'mid  some  thick  grove, 
All  withered  by  the  depth  of  shade  above. 
Admonitory  texts  inscribed  the  walls, 
Each,  in  its  ornamental  scroll  inclosed, 
Each  also  crowned  with  winged  heads — a  pair 
Of  rudely-painted  cherubim.     The  floor 
Of  nave  and  aisle,  in  unpretending  guise, 
Was  occupied  by  oaken  benches,  ranged 
In  seemly  rows  ;  the  chancel  only  showed 


416  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Some  inoffensive  marks  of  earthly  state 

And  vain  distinction.     A  capacious  pew 

Of  sculptured  oak  stood  here,  with  drapery  lined  ; 

And  marble  monuments  were  here  displayed 

Thronging  the  walls  ;  and  on  the  floor  beneath 

Sepulchral  stones  appeared,  with  emblems  graven 

And  foot-worn  epitaphs,  and  some  with  small 

And  shining  effigies  of  brass  inlaid. 

The  tribute  by  these  various  records  claimed 

Without  reluctance  did  we  pay  ;  and  read 

The  ordinary  chronicle  of  birth, 

Office,  alliance,  and  promotion — all 

Ending  in  dust ;  of  upright  magistrates, 

Grave  doctors  strenuous  for  the  mother  Church, 

And  uncorrupted  senators,  alike 

To  king  and  people  true.     A  brazen  plate, 

Not  easily  deciphered,  told  of  one 

Whose  course  of  earthly  honour  was  begun 

In  quality  of  page  among  the  train 

Of  the  eighth  Henry,  when  he  crossed  the  seas 

His  royal  state  to  show,  and  prove  his  strength 

In  tournament,  upon  the  fields  of  France. 

Another  tablet  registered  the  death, 

And  praised  the  gallant  bearing,  of  a  knight 

Tried  in  the  sea-fights  of  the  second  Charles. 

Near  this  brave  knight  his  father  lay  entombed  ; 

And,  to  the  silent  language  giving  voice, 

I  read, — how  in  his  manhood's  earlier  day 

He,  'mid  the  afflictions  of  intestine  war 

And  rightful  government  subverted,  found 

One  only  solace — that  he  had  espoused 

A  virtuous  lady  tenderly  beloved 

For  her  benign  perfections  ;  and  yet  more 

Endeared  to  him,  for  this,  that  in  her  state 

Of  wedlock  richly  crowned  with  Heaven's  regard, 

She  with  a  numerous  issue  filled  his  house, 

Who  throve,  like  plants,  uninjured  by  the  storm 

That  laid  their  country  waste.     No  need  to  speak 

Of  less  particular  notices  assigned 

To  youth  or  maiden  gone  before  their  time, 

And  matrons  and  unwedded  sisters  old  ; 

Whose  charity  and  goodness  were  rehearsed 

In  modest  panegyric.     "These  dim  lines, 

What  would  they  tell?''  said  I, — but,  from  the  task 

Of  puzzling  out  that  faded  narrative, 

With  whisper  soft  my  venerable  friend 

Called  me  ;  and  looking  down  the  darksome  aisle, 

I  saw  the  tenant  of  the  lonely  vale 

Standing  apart ;  with  curved  arm  reclined 

On  the  baptismal  font  ;  his  pallid  face 

Upturned,  as  if  his  mind  were  rapt,  or  lost 

In  some  abstraction  ; — gracefully  he  stood, 

The  semblance  bearing  of  a  sculptured  form 

That  leans  upon  a  monumental  urn 

In  peace,  from  morn  to  night,  from  year  to  year. 

Him  from  that  posture  did  the  sexton  rouss  ; 
Who  entered,  humming  carelessly  a  tune, 


THE  EXCUESION.  417 

Continuation  haply  of  the  notes 

That  had  beguiled  the  work  from  which  he  came, 

With  spade  and  mattock  o'er  his  shoulder  hung. 

To  be  deposited,  for  future  need, 

in  their  appointed  place.    The  pale  recluse 

Withdraw  ;  and  straight  we  followed, — to  a  spot 

Where  sun  and  shade  were  intermixed  ;  for  there 

A  broad  oak  stretching  forth  its  leafy  arms 

From  an  adjoining  pasture,  overhung 

Small  space  of  that  green  churchyard  with  a  light 

And  pleasant  awning.     On  the  moss-grown  wall 

My  ancient  friend  and  I  together  took 

Our  seats  ;  and  thus  the  Solitary  spake, 

Standing  before  us  : — "  Did  you  note  the  mien 

Of  that  self-solaced,  easy-hearted  churl, 

Death's  hireling,  who  scoops  out  his  neighbour's  grave, 

Or  wraps  an  old  acquaintance  up  in  clay, 

As  unconcerned  as  when  he  plants  a  tree? 

I  was  abruptly  summoned  by  his  voice 

From  some  affecting  images  and  thoughts, 

And  from  the  company  of  serious  words. 

Much,  yesterday,  was  said  in  glowing  phrase 

Of  our  sublime  dependencies  and  hopes 

For  future  states  of  being  ;  and  the  wings 

Of  speculation,  joyfully  outspread, 

Hovered  above  our  destiny  on  earth  : — 

But  stoop,  and  place  the  prospect  of  the  soul 

In  sober  contrast  with  reality, 

And  man's  substantial  life.     If  this  mute  earth 

Of  what  it  holds  could  speak,  and  every  grave 

Were  as  a  volume,  shut,  yet  capable 

Of  yielding  its  contents  to  eye  and  ear, 

We  should  recoil,  stricken  with  sorrow  and  shame, 

To  see  disclosed,  by  such  dread  proof,  how  ill 

That  which  is  done  accords  with  what  is  known 

To  reason,  and  by  conscience  is  enjoined  ; 

How  idly,  how  perversely,  life's  whole  course, 

To  this  conclusion,  deviates  from  the  line. 

Or  of  the  end  stops  short,  proposed  to  all 

At  her  aspiring  outset.     Mark  the  babe 

Not  long  accustomed  to  this  breathing  world  ; 

One  that  hath  barely  learned  to  shape  a  smile  ; 

Though  yet  irrational  of  soul  to  grasp 

With  tiny  fingers — to  let  fall  a  tear  ; 

And,  as  the  heavy  cloud  of  sleep  dissolves, 

To  stretch  his  limbs,  bemocking,  as  might  seem 

The  outward  functions  of  intelligent  man  ; 

A  grave  proficient  in  amusive  feats 

Of  puppetry,  that  from  the  lap  declare 

His  expectations,  and  announce  his  claims 

To  that  inheritance  which  millions  rue 

That  they  were  ever  born  to  !     In  due  time 

A  day  of  solemn  ceremonial  comes  ; 

When  they,  who  for  this  minor  hold  in  trust 

Rights  that  transcend  the  humblest  heritage 

Of  mere  humanity,  present  their  charge. 

For  this  occasion  daintily  adorned, 

At  the  baptismal  font.     And  when  the  puro 


418  THE  EXCURSION. 

And  consecrating  element  hath  cleansed 

The  original  stain,  the  child  is  there  received 

Into  the  second  ark,  Christ's  Church,  with  trust 

That  he,  from  wrath  redeemed,  therein  shall  float 

Over  the  billows  of  this  troublesome  world 

To  the  fair  land  of  everlasting  life. 

Corrupt  affections,  covetous  desires, 

Are  all  renounced  ;  high  as  the  thought  of  man 

Can  carry  virtue,  virtue  is  professed  ; 

A  dedication  made,  a  promise  given 

For  due  provision  to  control  and  guide, 

And  unremitting  progress  to  insure 

In  holiness  and  truth." 

"You  cannot  blame," 
Here  interposing  fervently  I  said, 
"  Rites  which  attest  that  man  by  nature  lies 
Bedded  for  good  and  evil  in  a  gulf 
Fearfully  low  ;  nor  will  your  judgment  scorn 
Those  services,  whereby  attempt  is  made 
To  lift  the  creature  toward  that  eminence 
On  which,  now  fallen,  erewhile  in  majesty 
He  stood  ;  or  if  not  so,  whose  top  serene 
At  least  he  feels  'tis  given  him  to  descry  ; 
Not  without  aspirations,  evermore 
Returning,  and  injunctions  from  within 
Doubt  to  cast  off  and  weariness,  in  trust 
That  what  the  soul  perceives,  if  glory  lost, 
May  be,  through  pains  and  persevering  hope, 
Recovered  ;  or,  if  hitherto  unknown, 
Lies  within  reach,  and  one  day  shall  be  gained." 

*'  I  blame  them  not,"  he  calmly  answered— "no 
The  outward  ritual  and  established  forms 
With  which  communities  of  men  invest 
These  inward  feelings,  and  the  aspiring  vows 
To  which  the  lips  give  public  utterance 
Are  both  a  natural  process  ;  and  by  me 
Shall  pass  uncensured  ;  though  the  issue  prove, 
Bringing  from  age  to  age  its  own  reproach, 
Incongruous,  impotent,  and  blank. — But,  oh  ! 
If  to  be  weak  is  to  be  wretched— miserable, 
As  the  lost  angel  by  a  human  voice 
Hath  mournfully  pronounced,  then,  in  my  mind. 
Far  better  not  to  move  at  all  than  move 
By  impulse  sent  from  such  illusive  power, 
That  finds  and  cannot  fasten  down  ;  that  grasps 
And  is  rejoiced,  and  loses  while  it  grasps  ; 
That  tempts,  emboldens— doth  a  while  sustain, 
And  then  betrays  ;  accuses  and  inflicts 
Remorseless  punishment  ;  and  so  retreads 
The  inevitable  circle  :  better  far 
Than  this,  to  graze  the  herb  in  thoughtless  peace, 
By  foresight  or  remembrance,  undisturbed  ! 

"Philosophy  !  and  thou,  more  vaunted  name, 
Religion  !  with  thy  statelier  retinue. 


THE  EXCURSION.  419 

Faith,  hope,  and  charity— from  the  visible  world 

Choose  for  your  emblems  whatsoe'er  ye  find 

Of  safest  guidance  and  of  firmest  trust, — 

The  torch,  the  star,  the  anchor ;  nor  except 

The  cross  itself,  at  whose  unconscious  feet 

The  generations  of  mankind  have  knelt 

Ruefully  seized,  and  shedding  bitter  tears, 

And  through  that  conflict  seeking  rest — of  you. 

High-titled  powers,  am  I  constrained  to  ask, 

Here  standing,  with  the  unvoyageable  sky 

In  faint  reflection  of  infinitude 

Stretched  overhead,  and  at  my  pensive  feet 

A  subterraneous  magazine  of  bones, 

In  whose  dark  vaults  my  own  shall  soon  be  laid, 

Where  are  your  triumphs  ?  your  dominion  where? 

And  in  what  age  admitted  and  confirmed? 

Not  for  a  happy  land  do  I  inquire, 

Island  or  grove,  that  hides  a  blessed  few 

Who,  with  obedience  willing  and  sincere, 

To  your  serene  authorities  conform  ; 

But  whom,  I  ask,  of  individual  souls, 

Have  ye  withdrawn  from  passion's  crooked  ways, 

Inspired,  and  thoroughly  fortified  ! — If  the  heart 

Could  be  inspected  to  its  inmost  folds 

By  sight  undazzled  with  the  glare  of  praise, 

Who  shall  be  named — in  the  resplendent  line 

Of  sages,  martyrs,  confessors — the  man 

Whom  the  best  might  of  conscience,  truth,  and  hope, 

For  one  day's  little  compass,  has  preserved 

From  painful  and  discreditable  shocks 

Of  contradiction,  from  some  vague  desire 

Culpably  cherished,  or  corrupt  relapse 

To  some  unsanctioned  fear?" 

"  If  this  be  so, 
And  man,"  said  I,  "  be  in  his  noblest  shape 
Thus  pitiably  infirm  ;  then,  He  who  made, 
And  who  shall  judge  the  creature,  will  forgive. 
Yet,  in  its  general  tenor,  your  complaint 
Is  all  too  true  ;  and  surely  not  misplaced  : 
For  from  this  pregnant  spot  of  ground  such  thoughts 
Rise  to  the  notice  of  a  serious  mind 
By  natural  exhalation.     With  the  dead 
In  their  repose,  the  living  in  their  mirth, 
Who  can  reflect,  unmoved,  upon  the  round 
Of  smooth  and  solemnized  complacencies, 
By  which,  in  Christian  lands,  from  age  to  age 
Profession  mocks  performance.     Earth  is  sick, 
And  Heaven  is  weary,  of  the  hollow  words 
Which  states  and  kingdoms  utter  when  they  talk 
Of  truth  and  justice.     Turn  to  private  life 
And  social  neighbourhood  ;  look  we  to  ourselves  ; 
A  light  of  duty  shines  on  every  day 
For  all  ;  and  yet  how  few  are  warmed  or  cheered  ! 
How  few  who  mingle  with  their  fellow-men 
And  still  remain  self-governed,  and  apart, 
Like  this  our  honoured  friend  ;  and  thence  acquire 
Right  to  expect  his  vigorous  decline, 
That  promises  to  the  end  a  blest  old  age  ! " 


420  THE  EXCURSION. 

"  Yet,"  with  a  smile  of  triumph  thus  exclaimed 
The  Solitary,  "in  the  life  of  man, 
If  to  the  poetry  of  common  speech 
Faith  may  be  given,  we  see  as  in  a  glass 
A  true  reflection  of  the  circling  year, 
With  all  its  seasons.     Grant  that  spring  is  there, 
In  spite  of  many  a  rough  untoward  blast, 
Hopeful  and  promising  with  buds  and  flowers  ; 
Yet  where  is  glowing  summer's  long  rich  day, 
That  ought  to  follow  faithfully  expressed? 
And  mellow  autumn,  charged  with  bounteous  fruit, 
Where  is  she  imaged  ?  in  what  favoured  clime 
Her  lavish  pomp,  and  ripe  magnificence  ? 
Yet,  while  the  better  part  is  missed,  the  worse 
In  man's  autumnal  season  is  set  forth 
With  a  resemblance  not  to  be  denied, 
And  that  contents  him  ;  bowers  that  hear  no  more 
The  voice  of  gladness,  less  and  less  supply 
Of  outward  sunshine  and  internal  warmth  ; 
And,  with  this  change,  sharp  air  and  falling  leaves, 
Foretelling  total  winter,  blank  and  cold. 

' '  How  gay  the  habitations  that  bedeck 
This  fertile  valley  !  Not  a  house  but  seems 
To  give  assurance  of  content  within  ; 
Embosomed  happiness,  and  placid  love  ; 
As  if  the  sunshine  of  the  day  were  met 
With  answering  brightness  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Who  walk  this  favoured  ground.     But  chance-regards, 
And  notice  forced  upon  incurious  ears  ; 
These,  if  these  only,  acting  in  despite 
Of  the  encomiums  by  my  friend  pronounced 
On  humble  life,  forbid  the  judging  mind 
To  trust  the  smiling  aspect  of  this  fair 
And  noiseless  commonwealth.     The  simple  race 
Of  mountaineers  (by  nature's  self  removed 
From  foul  temptations,  and  by  constant  care 
Of  a  good  shepherd  tended  as  themselves 
Do  tend  their  flocks)  partake  man's  general  lot 
With  little  mitigation.     They  escape, 
Perchance,  guilt's  heavier  woes  ;  and  do  not  feel 
The  tedium  of  fantastic  idleness  ; 
Yet  life,  as  with  the  multitude,  with  them, 
Is  fashioned  like  an  ill-constructed  tale ; 
That  on  the  outset  wastes  its  gay  desires, 
Its  fair  adventures,  its  enlivening  hopes, 
And  pleasant  interests — for  the  sequel  leaving 
Old  things  repeated  with  diminished  grace  ; 
And  all  the  laboured  novelties  at  best 
Imperfect  substitutes,  whose  use  and  power 
Evince  the  want  and  weakness  whence  they  spring.' 

While  in  this  serious  mood  we  held  discourse, 
The  reverend  pastor  toward  the  churchyard  gate 
Approached  ;  and,  with  a  mild  respectful  air 
Of  native  cordiality,  our  friend 
Advanced  to  greet  him.     With  a  gracious  mien 
Was  he  received,  and  mutual  joy  prevailed. 


THE  EXCURSION.  421 

A  while  they  stood  in  conference,  and  I  guess 

That  lie,  who  now  upon  the  mossy  wall 

Sate  by  my  side,  had  vanished,  if  a  wish 

Could  have  transferred  him  to  his  lonely  house 

Within  the  circuit  of  those  guardian  rocks. 

For  me,  I  looked  upon  the  pair,  well  pleased  : 

Nature  had  framed  them  both,  and  both  were  marked 

By  circumstance,  with  intermixture  fine 

Of  contrast  and  resemblance.     To  an  oak 

Hardy  and  grand,  a  weather-beaten  oak, 

Fresh  in  the  strength  and  majesty  of  age, 

One  might  be  likened  :  flourishing  appeared, 

Though  somewhat  past  the  fulness  of  his  prime, 

The  other — like  a  stately  sycamore, 

That  spreads,  in  gentler  pomp,  its  honeyed  shade. 

A  general  greeting  was  exchanged  ;  and  soon 
The  pastor  learned  that  his  approach  had  given 
A  welcome  interruption  to  discourse 
Grave,  and  in  truth  too  often  sad. — "  Is  man 
A  child  of  hope  ?     Do  generations  press 
On  generations,  without  progress  made  ? 
Halts  the  individual,  ere  his  hairs  be  gray, 
Perforce  ?    Are  we  a  creature  in  whom  good 
Preponderates,  or  evil  ?     Doth  the  will 
Acknowledge  reason's  law  ?    A  living  power 
Is  virtue,  or  no  better  than  a  name, 
Fleeting  as  health  or  beauty,  and  unsound  ? 
So  that  the  only  substance  which  remains, 
(For  thus  the  tenor  of  complaint  hath  run) 
Among  so  many  shadows,  are  the  pains 
And  penalties  of  miserable  life, 
Doomed  to  decay,  and  then  expire  in  dust ! 
Our  cogitations  this  way  have  been  drawn, 
These  are  the  points,"  the  Wanderer  said,  " on  which 
Our  inquest  turns. — Accord,  good  sir  !  the  light 
Of  your  experience,  to  dispel  this  gloom  : 
By  your  persuasive  wisdom  shall  the  heart 
That  frets,  or  languishes,  be  stilled  and  cheered." 

"  Our  nature,"  said  the  priest,  in  mild  reply, 
"Angels  may  weigh  and  fathom  :  they  perceive, 
With  undistempered  and  unclouded  spirit, 
The  object  as  it  is  ;  but,  for  ourselves, 
That  speculative  height  we  may  not  reach. 
The  good  and  evil  are  our  own  ;  and  we 
Are  that  which  we  would  contemplate  from  far. 
Knowledge,  for  us,  is  difficult  to  gain — 
Is  difficult  to  gain  and  hard  to  keep — 
As  virtue's  self ;  like  virtue  is  beset 
With  snares  ;  tried,  tempted,  subject  to  decay 
Love,  admiration,  fear,  desire,  and  hate, 
Blind  were  we  without  these  ;  through  these  alone 
Are  capable  to  notice  or  discern 
Or  to  record  ;  we  judge,  but  cannot  be 
Indifferent  judges.     'Spite  of  proudest  boast, 
Reason,  best  reason,  is  to  imperfect  man 
An  effort  only,  and  a  noble  aim  ; 


422  THE  EXCURSION. 

A  crown,  an  attribute  of  sovereign  power, 
Still  to  be  courted — never  to  be  won ! 
Look  forth,  or  each  man  dive  into  himself. 
What  sees  he  but  a  creature  too  perturbed, 
That  is  transported  to  excess  ;  that  yearns, 
Regrets,  or  trembles  wrongly,  or  too  much  ; 
Hopes  rashly,  in  disgust  as  rash  recoils  ; 
Battens  on  spleen,  or  moulders  in  despair? 
Thus  truth  is  missed,  and  comprehension  fails  ; 
And  darkness  and  delusion  round  our  path 
Spread  from  disease,  whose  subtile  injury  lurks 
Within  the  very  faculty  of  sight. 

"Yet  for  the  general  purposes  of  faith 
In  Providence,  for  solace  and  support, 
We  may  not  doubt  that  who  can  best  subject 
The  will  to  reason's  law,  and  strictliest  live 
And  act  in  that  obedience,  he  shall  gain 
The  clearest  apprehension  of  those  truths, 
Which  unassisted  reason's  utmost  power 
Is  too  infirm  to  reach.     But— waiving  this. 
And  our  regards  confining  within  bounds 
Of  less  exalted  consciousness — through  which 
The  very  multitude  are  free  to  range — 
We  safely  may  affirm  that  human  life 
Is  either  fair  and  tempting,  a  soft  scene 
Grateful  to  sight,  refreshing  to  the  soul, 
Or  a  forbidding  tract  of  cheerless  view  : 
Even  as  the  same  is  looked  at,  or  approached. 
Thus,  when  in  changeful  April  snow  has  fallen, 
And  fields  are  white,  if  from  the  sullen  north 
Your  walk  conduct  you  hither,  ere  the  sun 
Hath  gained  his  noontide  height,  this  churchyard,  filled 
With  mounds  transversely  lying  side  by  side 
From  east  to  west,  before  you  will  appear 
An  unillumined,  blank,  and  dreary  plain, 
With  more  than  wintery  cheerlessness  and  gloom 
Saddening  the  heart.     Go  forward,  and  look  back  ; 
Look,  from  the  quarter  whence  the  lord  of  fight, 
Of  life,  of  love,  and  gladness  doth  dispense 
His  beams  ;  which,  unexcluded  in  their  fall, 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  every  grave 
Have  gently  exercised  a  melting  power, 
Then  will  a  vernal  prospect  greet  your  eye, 
All  fresh  and  beautiful,  and  green  and  bright, 
Hopeful  and  cheerful  : — vanished  is  the  snow, 
Vanished  or  hidden  ;  and  the  whole  domain, 
To  some,  too  lightly  minded,  might  appear 
A  meadow  carpet  for  the  dancing  hours. 
This  contrast,  not  unsuitable  to  life, 
Is  to  that  other  state  more  opposite, 
Death,  and  its  two-fold  aspect ;  wintery — one, 
Cold,  sullen,  blank,  from  hope  and  joy  shut  out ; 
The  other,  which  the  ray  divine  hath  touched, 
Replete  with  vivid  promise,  bright  as  spring." 

"We  see,  then,  as  we  feel,"  the  Wanderer  thus 
With  a  complacent  animation  spake, 


THE  EXCURSION.  423 

"And,  in  your  judgment,  sir  !  the  mind's  repose 

On  evidence  is  not  to  be  insured 

By  act  of  naked  reason.     Moral  truth 

Is  no  mechanic  structure,  built  by  rule  ; 

And  which,  once  built,  retains  a  steadfast  shape 

And  undisturbed  proportions  ;  but  a  thing 

Subject,  you  deem,  to  vital  accidents  ; 

And,  like  the  water-lily,  lives  and  thrives, 

Whose  root  is  fixed  in  stable  earth,  whose  head 

Floats  on  the  tossing  waves.     With  joy  sincere 

I  re-salute  these  sentiments,  confirmed 

By  your  authority.     But  how  acquire 

The  inward  principle  that  gives  effect 

To  outward  argument  ;  the  passive  will 

Meek  to  admit ;  the  active  energy, 

Strong  and  unbounded  to  embrace,  and  firm 

To  keep  and  cherish?  How  shall  man  unite 

With  self-forgetting  tenderness  of  heart 

An  earth-despising  dignity  of  soul? 

Wise  in  that  union,  and  without  it  blind  1" 

"  The  way,"  said  I,  "  to  court,  if  not  obtain 

The  ingenuous  mind,  apt  to  be  set  aright ; 
This,  in  the  lonely  dell  discoursing,  you 
Declared  at  large  ;  and  by  what  exercise 
From  visible  nature  or  the  inner  self 
Power  may  be  trained,  and  renovation  brought 
To  those  who  need  the  gift.     But,  after  all, 
Is  aught  so  certain  as  that  man  is  doomed 
To  breathe  beneath  a  vault  of  ignorance  ? 
The  natural  roof  of  that  dark  house  in  which 
His  soul  is  pent  !  How  little  can  be  known — 
This  is  the  wise  man's  sigh  ;  how  far  we  err — 
This  is  the  good  man's  not  unfrequcnt  pang  ! 
And  they  perhaps  err  least,  the  lowly  class 
Whom  a  benign  necessity  compels 
To  follow  reason's  least  ambitious  course  ; 
Such  do  I  mean  who,  unperplexed  by  doubt, 
And  unincited  by  a  wish  to  look 
Into  high  objects  farther  than  they  may, 
Pace  to  and  fro,  from  morn  till  eventide, 
The  narrow  avenue  of  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread." 

"Yes,"  buoyantly  exclaimed 
The  pale  recluse — "  praise  to  the  sturdy  plough, 
And  patient  spade,  and  shepherd's  simple  crook, 
And  ponderous  loom — resounding  while  it  holds 
Body  and  mind  in  one  captivity  ; 
And  let  the  light  mechanic  tool  be  hailed 
With  honour  ;  which,  encasing  by  the  power 
Of  long  companionship,  the  artist's  hand, 
Cuts  off  that  hand,  with  all  its  world  of  nerves, 
From  a  too  busy  commerce  with  the  heart  1 
Inglorious  implements  of  craft  and  toil, 
Both  ye  that  shape  and  build,  and  ye  that  force, 
By  slow  solicitation,  earth  to  yield 
Her  annual  bounty,  sparingly  dealt  forth 
With  wise  reluctance,  you  would  I  extol  2  a 


424  THE  EXCURSION. 

Not  for  gross  good  alone  which  ye  produce, 
But  for  the  impertinent  and  ceaseless  strife 
Of  proofs  and  reasons  ye  preclude — in  those 
Who  to  your  dull  society  are  born, 
And  with  their  humble  birthright  rest  content. 
Would  I  had  ne'er  renounced  it !" 

A  slight  flush 
Of  moral  anger  previously  had  tinged 
The  old  man's  cheek  ;  but,  at  this  closing  turn 
Of  self-reproach,  it  passed  away.     Said  he, 
"  That  which  we  feel  we  utter  ;  as  we  think 
So  have  we  argued  ;  reaping  for  our  pains 
No  visible  recompense.     For  our  relief 
You,"  to  the  pastor  turning  thus  he  spake, 
"  Have  kindly  interposed.     May  I  entreat 
Your  further  help  ?    The  mine  of  real  life 
Dig  for  us  ;  and  present  us,  in  the  shape 
Of  virgin  ore,  that  gold  which  we,  by  pains, 
Fruitless  as  those  of  aery  alchemists, 
Seek  from  the  torturing  crucible.     There  lies 
Around  us  a  domain  where  you  have  long 
Watched  both  the  outward  course  and  inner  heart ; 
Give  us,  for  our  abstractions,  solid  facts  ; 
For  our  disputes,  plain  pictures.     Say  what  man 
He  is  who  cultivates  yon  hanging  field  ; 
What  qualities  of  mind  she  bears,  who  comes, 
For  morn  and  evening  service  with  her  pail, 
To  that  green  pasture  ;  place  before  our  sight 
The  family  who  dwell  within  yon  house 
Fenced  round  with  glittering  laurel ;  or  in  that 
Below,  from  which  the  curling  smoke  ascends. 
Or  rather,  as  we  stand  on  holy  earth, 
And  have  the  dead  around  us,  take  from  them 
Your  instances  ;  for  they  are  both  best  known, 
And  by  frail  man  most  equitably  judged. 
Epitomise  the  life  ;  pronounce,  you  can, 
Authentic  epitaphs  on  some  of  these 
Who,  from  their  lowly  mansions  hither  brought, 
Beneath  this  turf  lie  mouldering  at  our  feet. 
So,  by  your  records,  may  our  doubts  be  solved  ; 
And  so,  not  searching  higher,  we  may  learn 
To  prize  the  breath  we  share  with  human  kind 
And  look  upon  the  dust  of  man  with  awe." 

The  priest  replied. — "  An  office  you  impose 
For  which  peculiar  requisites  are  mine  : 
Yet  much,  I  feel,  is  wanting — else  the  task 
Would  be  most  grateful.     True  indeed  it  is 
That  they  whom  death  has  hidden  from  our  sight 
Are  worthiest  of  the  mind's  regard  ;  with  these 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past : 
Mortality's  last  exercise  and  proof 
Is  undergone  ;  the  transit  made  that  shows 
The  very  soul,  revealed  as  she  departs. 
Yet,  on  your  first  suggestion,  will  I  give, 
Ere  we  descend  into  these  silent  vaults, 
One  picture  from  the  living. — 


TIIE  EXCURSION.  425 

You  behold, 
High  on  the  breast  of  yon  dark  mountain — dark 
With  stony  barrenness,  a  shining  speck 
Bright  as  a  sunbeam  sleeping  till  a  shower 
Brush  it  away,  or  cloud  pass  over  it ; 
And  such  it  might  be  deemed— a  sleeping  sunbeam  ; 
But  'tis  a  plot  of  cultivated  ground, 
Cut  off,  an  island  in  the  dusky  waste  ; 
And  that  attractive  brightness  is  its  own. 
The  lofty  site,  by  nature  framed  to  tempt 
Amid  a  wilderness  of  rocks  and  stones 
The  tiller's  hand,  a  hermit  might  have  chosen, 
For  opportunity  presented,  thence 
Far  forth  to  send  his  wandering  eye  o'er  land 
And  ocean,  and  look  down  upon  the  works, 
The  habitations,  and  the  ways  of  men, 
Himself  unseen  I     But  no  tradition  tells 
That  ever  hermit  dipped  his  maple  dish 
In  the  sweet  spring  that  lurks  'mid  yon  green  fields  ; 
And  no  such  visionary  views  belong 
To  those  who  occupy  and  till  the  ground, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountain  dwell, 
A  wedded  pair  in  childless  solitude. 
A  house  of  stones  collected  on  the  spot, 
By  rude  hands  built,  with  rocky  knolls  in  front, 
Backed  also  by  a  ledge  of  rock,  whose  crest 
Of  birch-trees  waves  above  the  chimney  top : 
A  rough  abode — in  colour,  shape,  and  size, 
Such  as  in  unsafe  times  of  Border  war 
Might  have  been  wished  for  and  contrived,  to  elude 
The  eye  of  roving  plunderer — for  their  need 
Suffices  ;  and  unshaken  bears  the  assault 
Of  their  most  dreaded  foe,  the  strong  south-west 
In  anger  blowing  from  the  distant  sea. 
Alone  within  her  solitary  hut ; 
There,  or  within  the  compass  of  her  fields, 
At  any  moment  may  the  dame  be  found, 
True  as  the  stock-dove  to  her  shallow  nest 
And  to  the  grove  that  holds  it.     She  beguiles 
By  intermingled  work  of  house  and  field 
The  summer's  day,  and  winter's  ;  with  success 
Not  equal,  but  sufficient  to  maintain, 
Even  at  the  worst,  a  smooth  stream  of  content, 
Until  the  expected  hour  at  which  her  mate 
From  the  far-distant  quarry's  vault  returns  ; 
And  by  his  converse  crowns  a  silent  day 
With  evening  cheerfulness.     In  powers  of  mind, 
In  scale  of  culture,  few  among  my  flock 
Hold  lower  rank  than  this  sequestered  pair  ; 
But  humbleness  of  heart  descends  from  heaven  ; 
And  that  best  gift  of  Heaven  hath  fallen  on  them  ; 
Abundant  recompense  for  every  want. 
Stoop  from  your  height,  ye  proud,  and  copy  these  I 
Who,  in  their  noiseless  dwelling-place,  can  hear 
The  voice  of  wisdom  whispering  Scripture  texts 
For  the  mind's  government,  or  temper's  peace  ; 
And  recommending,  for  their  mutual  need, 
Forgiveness,  patience,  hope,  and  charity  !" 


426  THE  EXCURSION. 

"  Much  was  I  pleased,"  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  said, 
"  When  to  those  shining  fields  our  notice  first 
You  turned  ;  and  yet  more  pleased  have  from  your  lips 
Gathered  this  fair  report  of  them  who  dwell 
In  that  retirement ;  whither  by  such  course 
Of  evil  hap  and  good  as  oft  awaits 
A  lone  wayfaring  man,  I  once  was  brought. 
Dark  on  my  road  the  autumnal  evening  fell 
While  I  was  traversing  yon  mountain-pass, 
And  night  succeeded  with  unusual  gloom  ; 
So  that  my  feet  and  hands  at  length  became 
Guides  better  than  mine  eyes— until  a  light 
High  in  the  gloom  appeared,  too  high,  methought, 
For  human  habitation  ;  but  I  longed 
To  reach  it,  destitute  of  other  hope. 
I  looked  with  steadiness  as  sailors  look 
On  the  north  star,  or  watch-tower's  distant  lamp, 
And  saw  the  light— now  fixed— and  shifting  now— 
Not  like  a  dancing  meteor,  but  in  line 
Of  never-varying  motion,  to  and  fro. 
It  is  no  night-fire  of  the  naked  hills, 
Thought  I,  some  friendly  covert  must  be  near. 
With  this  persuasion  thitherward  my  steps 
I  turn,  and  reach  at  last  the  guiding  light ; 
Joy  to  myself  !  but  to  the  heart  of  her 
Who  there  was  standing  on  the  open  hill 
(The  same  kind  matron  whom  your  tongue  hath  praised) 
Alarm  and  disappointment !    The  alarm 
Ceased  when  she  learned  through  what  mishap  I  came, 
And  by  what  help  had  gained  those  distant  fields. 
Drawn  from  her  cottage,  on  that  open  height, 
Bearing  a  lanthorn  in  her  hand  she  stood, 
Or  paced  the  ground— to  guide  her  husband  home, 
By  that  unwearied  signal  kenned  afar ; 
An  anxious  duty  !  which  the  lofty  sitet. 
Traversed  but  by  a  few  irregular  paths, 
Imposes,  whensoever  untoward  chance 
Detains  him  after  his  accustomed  hour 
When  night  lies  black  upon  the  hills.     '  But  come, 
Come, '  said  the  matron,  '  to  our  poor  abode  ; 
"      Those  dark  rocks  hide  it !'     Entering,  I  beheld 
A  blazing  fire — beside  a  cleanly  hearth 
Sate  down  !  and  to  her  office,  with  leave  asked, 
The  dame  returned.— Or  ere  that  glowing  pile 
Of  mountain  turf  required  the  builder's  hand 
Its  wasted  splendour  to  repair,  the  door 
Opened,  and  she  re-entered  with  glad  looks, 
Her  helpmate  following.     Hospitable  fare, 
Frank  conversation,  made  the  evening's  treat : 
Need  a  bewildered  traveller  wish  for  more? 
But  more  was  given  ;  I  studied  as  we  sate 
By  the  bright  fire,  the  good  man's  face— composed 
Of  features  elegant ;  an  open  brow 
Of  undisturbed  humanity  ;  a  cheek 
Suffused  with  something  of  a  feminine  hue : 
Eyes  beaming  courtesy  and  mild  regard  ; 
But,  in  the  quicker  turns  of  the  discourse, 
Expression  slowly  varying,  that  evinced 


THE  EXCURSION.  427 

A  tardy  apprehension.     From  a  fount 

Lost,  thought  I,  in  the  obscurities  of  time, 

But  honoured  once,  these  features  and  that  mien 

May  have  descended,  though  I  see  them  here. 

In  such  a  man,  so  gentle  and  subdued, 

Withal  so  graceful  in  his  gentleness, 

A  race  illustrious  for  heroic  deeds, 

Humbled,  but  not  degraded,  may  expire. 

This  pleasing  fancy  (cherished  and  upheld 

By  sundry  recollections  of  such  fall 

From  high  to  low,  ascent  from  low  to  high, 

As  books  record,  and  even  the  careless  mind 

Cannot  but  notice  among  men  and  things) 

Went  with  me  to  the  place  of  my  repose. 

"  Roused  by  the  crowing  cock  at  dawn  of  day, 
I  yet  had  risen  too  late  to  interchange 
A  morning  salutation  with  my  host, 
Gone  forth  already  to  the  far-off  seat 
Of  his  day's  work.     '  Three  dark  mid-winter  months 
Pass,   said  the  matron,  'and  I  never  see, 
Save  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 
My  helpmate's  face  by  light  of  day.     He  quits 
His  door  in  darkness,  nor  till  dusk  returns. 
And,  through  Heaven's  blessing,  thus  we  gain  the  bread 
For  which  we  pray ,  and  lor  the  wants  provide 
Of  sickness,  accident,  and  helpless  age. 
Companions  have  I  many  ;  many  lriends, 
Dependents,  comforters — my  wheel,  my  fire, 
All  day  the  house-clock  ticking  in  mine  ear, 
The  cackling  hen,  the  tender  chicken  brood, 
And  the  wild  birds  that  gather  round  my  porch. 
This  honest  sheep-dog's  countenance  I  read  ; 
With  him  can  talk,  nor  blush  to  waste  a  word 
On  creatures  less  intelligent  and  shrewd. 
And  if  the  blustering  wind  that  drives  the  clouds 
Care  not  for  me,  he  lingers  round  my  door, 
And  makes  me  pastime  when  our  tempers  suit ; 
But,  above  all,  my  thoughts  are  my  support." 
The  matron  ended— nor  could  I  forbear 
To  exclaim—'  Oh,  happy  !  yielding  to  the  law 
Of  these  privations,  richer  in  the  main  ! 
While  thankless  thousands  are  oppressed  and  clogged 
By  ease  and  leisure — by  the  very  wealth 
And  pride  of  opportunity  made  poor  ; 
While  tens  of  thousands  falter  in  their  path, 
And  sink  through  utter  want  of  cheering  light  ; 
For  you  the  hours  of  labour  do  not  flag  ; 
For  you  each  evening  hath  its  shining  star, 
And  every  Sabbath-day  its  golden  sun  !'" 

"  Yes  I"  said  the  Solitary  with  a  smile 
That  seemed  to  break  from  an  expanding  heart, 
"The  untutored  bird  may  found,  and  so  construct. 
And  with  such  soft  materials  line  her  nest, 
Fixed  in  the  centre  of  a  prickly  brake, 
That  the  thorns  wound  her  not  ;  they  only  guard. 
Powers  not  unjus'W  likened  to  those  gifts 


428  THE  EXCURSION. 

Of  happy  instinct  which  the  woodland  bird 
Shares  with  her  species,  nature's  grace  sometimes 
Upon  the  individual  doth  confer 
Among  her  higher  creatures  born  and  trained 
To  use  of  reason.     And,  I  own,  that  tired 
Of  the  ostentatious  world — a  swelling  stage 
With  empty  actions  and  vain  passions  stuffed, 
And  from  the  private  struggles  of  mankind 
Hoping  for  less  than  I  could  wish  to  hope, 
Far  less  than  once  I  trusted  and  believed — 
I  love  to  hear  of  those,  who,  not  contending 
Nor  summoned  to  contend  for  virtue's  prize, 
Miss  not  the  humbler  good  at  which  they  aim  ; 
Blest  with  a  kindly  faculty  to  blunt 
The  edge  of  adverse  circumstance,  and  turn 
Into  their  contraries  the  petty  plagues 
And  hindrances  with  which  they  stand  beset. 
In  early  youth,  among  my  native  hills, 
I  knew  a  Scottish  peasant,  who  possessed 
A  few  small  crofts  of  stone-encumbered  ground ; 
Masses  of  every  shape  and  size,  that  lay 
Scattered  about  beneath  the  mouldering  walls 
Of  a  rough  precipice  ;  and  some,  apart, 
In  quarters  unobnoxious  to  such  chance, 
As  if  the  moon  had  showered  them  down  in  spite  •, 
But  he  repined  not.     Though  the  plough  was  scared 
By  these  obstructions,  '  round  the  shady  stones 
A  fertilising  moisture,'  said  the  swain, 
'  Gathers  and  is  preserved  ;  and  feeding  dews 
And  damps,  through  all  the  droughty  summer  day, 
From  out  their  substance  issuing,  maintain 
Herbage  that  never  fails  ;  no  grass  springs  up 
So  green,  so  fresh,  so  plentiful,  as  mine  !' 
But  thinly  sown  these  natures  ;  rare,  at  least, 
The  mutual  aptitude  of  seed  and  soil 
That  yields  such  kindly  product.     He— whose  bed 
Perhaps  yon  loose  sods  cover,  the  poor  pensioner 
Brought  yesterday  from  our  sequestered  dell 
Here  to  lie  down  in  lasting  quiet— he, 
If  living  now, — could  otherwise  report 
Of  rustic  loneliness  :  that  gray-haired  orphan- 
So  call  him,  for  humanity  to  hirn 
No  parent  was — could  feelingly  have  told, 
In  life,  in  death,  what  solitude  can  breed 
Of  selfishness,  and  cruelty  and  vice  ; 
Or,  if  it  breed  not,  hath  not  power  to  cure. 
But  your  compliance,  sir  !  with  our  request 
My  words  too  long  have  hindered." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps  incited  rather,  by  these  shocks, 
In -no  ungracious  opposition,  given 
To  the  confiding  spirit  of  his  own 
Experienced  faith,  the  reverend  pastor  said, 
Around  him  looking,  "Where  shall  I  begin? 
Who  shall  be  first  selected  from  my  flock 
Gathered  together  in  their  peaceful  fold  ?" 
He  paused — and  having  lifted  up  his  eyes 
To  the  pure  heaven,  he  cast  them  down  again 


THE  EXCURSION.  «9 

Upon  the  earth  beneath  his  feet  ;  and  spake. 

"  To  a  mysteriously-consorted  pair 

This  place  is  consecrate  ;  to  death  and  life, 

And  to  the  best  affections  that  proceed 

From  their  conjunction.     Consecrate  to  faith 

In  Him  who  bled  for  man  upon  the  cross  ; 

Hallowed  to  revelation  ;  and  no  less 

To  reason's  mandates  ;  and  the  hopes  divine 

Of  pure  imagination  ; — above  all, 

To  charity,  and  love,  that  have  provided. 

Within  these  precincts  a  capacious  bed 

And  receptacle,  open  to  the  good 

And  evil,  to  the  just  and  the  unjust  ; 

In  which  they  find  an  equal  resting-place  : 

Even  as  the  multitude  of  kindred  brooks 

And  streams  whose  murmur  fills  this  hollow  vale, 

Whether  their  course  be  turbulent  or  smooth, 

Their  waters  clear  or  sullied,  all  are  lost 

Within  the  bosom  of  yon  crystal  lake, 

And  end  their  journey  in  the  same  repose  ! 

"And  blest  are  they  who  sleep  ;  and  we  that  know 
While  in  a  spot  like  this  we  breathe  and  walk, 
That  all  beneath  us  by  the  wings  are  covered 
Of  motherly  humanity,  outspread 
And  gathering  all  within  their  tender  shade, 
Though  loth  and  slow  to  come  !    A  battle-field, 
In  stillness  left  when  slaughter  is  no  more, 
With  this  compared,  is  a  strange  spectacle  ! 
A  rueful  sight  the  wild  shore  strewn  with  wrecks, 
And  trod  by  people  in  afflicted  quest 
Of  friends  and  kindred  whom  the  angry  sea 
Restores  not  to  their  prayer  !     Ah  !  who  would  think 
That  all  the  scattered  subjects  which  compose 
Earth's  melancholy  vision  through  the  space 
Of  all  her  climes  ;  these  wretched,  these  depraved, 
To  virtue  lost,  insensible  of  peace, 
From  the  delights  of  charity  cut  off, 
To  pity  dead,  the  oppressor  and  the  opprest ; 
Tyrants  who  utter  the  destroying  word, 
And  slaves  who  will  consent  to  be  destroyed — 
Were  of  one  species  with  the  sheltered  few, 
Who,  with  a  dutiful  and  tender  hand, 
Did  lodge  in  an  appropriated  spot, 
This  file  of  infants  ;  some  that  never  breathed 
The  vital  air  ;  and  others,  who,  allowed 
That  privilege,  did  yet  expire  too  soon, 
Or  with  too  brief  a  warning,  to  admit 
Administration  of  the  holy  rite 
That  lovingly  consigns  the  babe  to  the  arms 
Of  Jesus,  and  his'everlasting  care. 
These  that  in  trembling  hope  are  laid  apart  ; 
And  the  besprinkled  nursling,  unrequired 
Till  he  begins  to  smile  upon  the  breast 
That  feeds  him  ;  and  the  tottering  little  one 
Taken  from  air  and  sunshine  when  the  rose 
Of  infancy  first  blooms  upon  his  choek  ; 
The  thinkirg,  thoughtless  schoolboy  ;  the  bold  youth 


430  THE  EXCURSION. 

Of  soul  impetuous,  and  the  bashful  maid 

Smitten  while  all  the  promises  of  life 

Are  opening  round  her  ;  those  of  middle  age, 

Cast  clown  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 

Like  pillars  fixed  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 

And  more  secure,  by  very  weight  of  all 

That,  for  support,  Bests  on  them  :  the  decayed 

And  burthensome  ;  and,  lastly,  that  poor  few 

Whose  light  of  reason  is  with  age  extinct ; 

The  hopeful  and  the  hopeless,  first  and  last, 

The  earliest  summoned  and  the  longest  spared — 

Are  here  deposited,  with  tribute  paid 

Various,  but  unto  each  some  tribute  paid  ; 

As  if,  amid  these  peaceful  hills  and  groves, 

Society  were  touched  with  kind  concern  ; 

And  gentle  '  nature  grieved,  that  one  should  die  ;' 

Or,  if  the  change  demanded  no  regret, 

Observed  the  liberating  stroke — and  blessed. 

And  whence  that  tribute  ?  wherefore  these  regards  ? 

Not  from  the  naked  heart  alone  of  man 

(Though  claiming  high  distinction  upon  earth 

As  the  sole  spring  and  fountain-head  of  tears, 

His  own  peculiar  utterance  for  distress 

Or  gladness)  ;  no,"  the  philosophic  priest 

Continued,  ' '  'tis  not  in  the  vital  seat 

Of  feeling  to  produce  them,  without  aid 

From  the  pure  soul,  the  soul  sublime  and  pure  ; 

With  her  two  faculties  of  eye  and  ear, 

The  one  by  which  a  creature,  whom  his  sins 

Have  rendered  prone,  can  upward  look  to  heaven  ; 

The  other  that  empowers  him  to  perceive 

The  voice  of  Deity,  on  height  and  plain 

Whispering  those  truths  in  stillness,  which  the  Word, 

To  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds,  proclaims. 

Not  without  such  assistance  could  the  use 

Of  these  benign  observances  prevail. 

Thus  are  they  born,  thus  fostered,  and  maintained  ; 

And  by  the  care  prospective  of  our  wise 

Forefathers,  who,  to  guard  against  the  shocks, 

The  fluctuation  and  decay  of  things 

Embodied  and  established  these  high  truths 

In  solemn  institutions  : — men  convinced 

That  life  is  love  and  immortality, 

The  being  one,  and  one  the  element. 

There  lies  the  channel,  and  original  bed, 

From  the  beginning,  hollowed  out  and  scooped 

For  man's  affections— else  betrayed  and  lost, 

And  swallowed  up  'mid  deserts  infinite  ! 

This  is  the  genuine  course,  the  aim,  and  end 

Of  prescient  reason  ;  all  conclusions  else 

Are  abject,  vain,  presumptuous,  and  perverse. 

The  faith  partaking  of  those  holy  times, 

Life,  I  repeat,  is  energy  of  love, 

Divine  or  human  ;  exercised  in  pain, 

In  strife,  and  tribulation  ;  and  ordained, 

If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass, 

Through  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy." 


THE  EXCURSION.  431 

BOOK   VI. 

ARGUMENT. 

Poet's  address  to  the  state  and  Church  of  England-  The  pastor  not  inferior  to  the  ancient 
Worthies  of  the  Church — He  begins  his  narratives  with  an  instance  of  unrequited  love — 
Anguish  of  mind  subdued—and  how — The  lonely  miner,  an  instance  of  perseverance,  which 
leads  by  contrast  to  an  example  of  abused  talents,  irresolution,  and  weakness — Solitary, 
applying  this  covertly  to  his  own  case,  asks  for  an  instance  of  some  stranger,  whose  dispositions 
may  have  led  him  to  end  his  days  here — Pastor,  in  answer,  gives  an  account  of  the  harmonizing 
influence  of  solitude  upon  two  men,  of  opposite  principles,  who  had  encountered  agitations  in 
public  life — The  rule  by  which  peace  may  be  obtained  expressed — and  where— Solitary  hints 
at  an  overpowering  fatality — Answer  of  the  pastor — What  subjects  he  will  exclude  from  his 
narratives— Conversation  upon  this— Instance  of  an  unamiable  character,  a  female — and  why 
given — Contrasted  with  this,  a  meek  sufferer,  from  unguarded  and  betrayed  love — Instance  of 
heavier  guilt,  and  its  consequences  to  the  offender — With  this  instance  of  a  marriage  contract 
broken  is  contrasted  one  of  a  widower,  evidencing  his  faithful  affection  towards  his  deceased 
wife  by  his  care  of  their  female  children. 

THE  CHURCHYARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Hail  to  the  crown  by  freedom  shaped — to  gird 

An  English  sovereign's  brow  !  and  to  the  throne 

Whereon  he  sits  !  Whose  deep  foundations  lie 

In  veneration  and  the  people's  love  ; 

Whose  steps  are  equity,  whose  seat  is  law. 

Hail  to  the  state  of  England  !  And  conjoin 

With  this  a  salutation  as  devout, 

Made  to  the  spiritual  fabric  of  her  Church  ; 

Founded  in  truth  ;  by  blood  of  martyrdom 

Cemented  ;  by  the  hands  of  wisdom  reared 

In  beauty  of  holiness,  with  ordered  pomp, 

Decent,  and  unreproved.     The  voice,  that  greets 

The  majesty  of  both,  shall  pray  for  both  ; 

That  mutually  protected  and  sustained, 

They  may  endure  as  long  as  sea  surrounds 

This  favoured  land,  or  sunshine  warms  her  soil. 

And  oh,  ye  swelling  hills,  and  spacious  plains  ! 

Besprent  from  shore  to  shore  with  steeple-towers. 

And  spires  whose  "silent  finger  points  to  heaven  ;" 

Nor  wanting,  at  wide  intervals,  the  bulk 

Of  ancient  minster,  lifted  above  the  cloud 

Of  the  dense  air,  which  town  or  city  breeds 

To  intercept  the  sun's  glad  beams — may  ne'er 

That  true  succession  fail  of  English  hearts, 

Who,  with  ancestral  feeling  can  perceive 

What  in  those  holy  structures  ye  possess 

Of  ornamental  interest,  and  the  charm 

Of  pious  sentiment  diffused  afar, 

And  human  charity,  and  social  love. 

Thus  never  shall  the  indignities  of  time 

Approach  their  reverend  graces,  unopposed  • 

Nor  shall  the  elements  be  free  to  hurt 

Their  fair  proportions  ;  nor  the  blinder  rage 

Of  bigot  zeal  madly  to  overturn  ; 

And,  if  the  desolating  hand  of  war 

Spare  them,  they  shall  continue  to  bestow — 

Upon  the  thronged  abodes  of  busy  men 


432  THE  EXCURSION. 

(Depraved,  and  ever  prone  to  fill  their  minds 

Exclusively  with  transitory  things) 

An  air  and  mien  of  dignified  pursuit ; 

Of  sweet  civility — on  rustic  wilds. 

The  poet  fostering  for  his  native  land 

Such  hope,  entreats  that  servants  may  abound 

Of  those  pure  altars  worthy ;  ministers 

Detached  from  pleasure,  to  the  love  of  gain 

Superior,  insusceptible  of  pride, 

And  by  ambitious  longings  undisturbed  ; 

Men,  whose  delight  is  where  their  duty  lands 

Or  fixes  them  ;  whose  least  distinguished  day 

Shines  with  some  portion  of  that  heavenly  lustre 

Which  makes  the  Sabbath  lovely  in  the  sight 

Of  blessed  angels,  pitying  human  cares. 

And,  as  on  earth  it  is  the  doom  of  truth 

To  be  perpetually  attacked  by  foes 

Open  or  covert,  be  that  priesthood  still, 

For  her  defence,  replenished  with  a  band 

Of  strenuous  champions,  in  scholastic  arts 

Thoroughly  disciplined;   nor  (if  in  course 

Of  the  revolving  world's  disturbances 

Cause  should  recur,  which  righteous  Heaven  avert ! 

To  meet  such  trial)  from  their  spiritual  sires 

Degenerate  ;  who,  constrained  to  wield  the  sword 

Of  disputation,  shrunk  not  though  assailed 

With  hostile  din,  and  combating  in  sight 

Of  angry  umpires,  partial  and  unjust  ; 

And  did,  thereafter,  bathe  their  hands  in  fire, 

So  to  declare  the  conscience  satisfied  : 

Nor  for  their  bodies  would  accept  release  ; 

But,  blessing  God,  and  praising  him,  bequeathed, 

With  their  last  breath,  from  out  the  smouldering  flame, 

The  faith  which  they  by  diligence  had  earned, 

Or,  through  illuminating  grace,  received, 

For  their  dear  countrymen,  and  all  mankind. 

Oh,  high  example,  constancy  divine ! 

Even  such  a  man  (inheriting  the  zeal 
And  from  the  sanctity  of  elder  times 
Not  deviating, — a  priest,  the  like  of  whom, 
If  multiplied,  and  in  their  stations  set, 
Would  o'er  the  bosom  of  a  joyful  land 
Spread  true  religion,  and  her  genuine  fruits) 
Before  me  stood  that  day  ;  on  holy  ground 
Fraught  with  the  relics  of  mortality, 
Exalting  tender  themes,  by  just  degrees 
To  lofty  raised  ;  and  to  the  highest,  last : 
The  head  and  mighty  paramount  of  truths  ; 
Immortal  life  in  never-fading  worlds, 
For  mortal  creatures,  conquered  and  secured. 

That  basis  laid,  those  principles  of  faith 
^  Announced  as  a  preparatory  act 

Of  reverence  to  the  spirit  of  the  place  ; 
The  pastor  casts  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Not,  as  before,  like  one  oppressed  with  awe. 


THE  EXCURSION.  433 

But  with  a  mild  and  social  cheerfulness, 
Then  to  the  Solitary  turned,  and  spake — 

"  At  morn  or  eve,  in  your  retired  domain, 
Perchance  you  not  unfrcquently  have  marked 
A  visitor, — in  quest  of  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Too  delicate  employ,  as  would  appear, 
For  one  who,  though  of  drooping  mien,  had  yet 
From  nature's  kindliness  received  a  frame 
Robust  as  ever  rural  labour  bred." 

The  Solitary  answered  : — "Such  a  form 

Full  well  I  recollect.     We  often  crossed 

Each  other's  path  ;  but,  as  the  intruder  seemed 

Fondly  to  prize  the  silence  which  he  kept, 

And  I  as  willingly  did  cherish  mine, 

We  met,  and  passed  like  shadows.     I  have  heard, 

From  my  good  host,  that  he  was  crazed  in  brain 

By  unrequited  love  ;  and  scaled  the  rocks, 

Dived  into  caves,  and  pierced  the  matted  woods, 

In  hope  to  find  some  virtuous  herb,  of  power 

To  cure  his  malady  !" 

The  vicar  smiled. 
"  Alas  !  before  to-morrow's  sun  goes  down 
His  habitation  will  be  heie  :  for  him 
That  open  grave  is  destined." 

"  Died  he  then 
Of  pain  and  grief?"  the  Solitary  asked. 
"  Believe  it  not — oh  !  never  could  that  be  !" 

"  He  loved,"  the  vicar  answered,  "  deeply  loved. 
Loved  fondly,  truly,  fervently  ;  and  dared 
At  length  to  tell  his  love,  but  sued  in  vain  ; 
Rejected — yea,  repelled — and,  if  with  scorn 
Upon  the  haughty  maiden's  brow,  'tis  but 
A  high-prized  plume  which  female  beauty  wears 
In  wantonness  of  conquest,  or  puts  on 
To  cheat  the  world,  or  from  herself  to  hide 
Humiliation,  when  no  longer  free. 
That  he  could  brook,  and  glory  in  ; — but  when 
The  tidings  came  that  she  whom  he  had  wooed 
Was  wedded  to  another,  and  his  heart 
Was  forced  to  rend  away  its  only  hope, 
Then,  pity  could  have  scarcely  found  on  earth 
An  object  worthier  of  regard  than  he, 
In  the  transition  of  that  bitter  hour  ! 
Lost  was  she,  lost  ;  nor  could  the  sufferer  say 
That  in  the  act  of  preference  he  had  been 
Unjustly  dealt  with  ;  but  the  maid  was  gone  ! 
Had  vanished  from  his  prospects  and  desires  ; 
Not  by  translation  to  the  heavenly  choir 
Who  have  put  off  their  mortal  spoils— ah,  no  ! 
She  lives  another's  wishes  to  complete, —  V 

'Joy  be  their  lot,  and  happiness,'  he  cried, 
'  His  lot  and  hers,  as  misery  is  mine  !' 

Such  was  that  strong  concussion  ;  but  the  man 
Who  trembled,  trunk  and  limbs,  like  some  huge  oak 


434  THE  EXCURSION. 

By  a  fierce  tempest  shaken,  soon  resumed 
The  steadfast  quiet  natural  to  a  mind 
.  Of  composition  gentle  and  sedate, 

And  in  its  movements  circumspect  and  slow, 

To  books,  and  to  the  long-forsaken  desk, 

O'er  which  enchained  by  science  he  had  loved 

To  bend,  he  stoutly  re-addressed  himself, 

Resolved  to  quell  his  pain,  and  search  for  truth 

With  keener  appetite  (if  that  might  be) 

And  closer  industry.     Of  what  ensued 

Within  the  heart  no  outward  sign  appeared 

Till  a  betraying  sickliness  was  seen 

To  tinge  his  cheek  ;  and  through  his  frame  it  crept 

With  slow  mutation  unconcealable  ; 

Such  universal  change  as  autumn  makes 

In  the  fair  body  of  a  leafy  grove 

Discoloured,  then  divested.     'Tis  affirmed 

By  poets  skilled  in  nature's  secret  ways 

That  love  will  not  submit  to  be  controlled 

By  mastery  : — and  the  good  man  lacked  not  friends 

Who  strove  to  instil  this  truth  into  his  mind, 

A  mind  in  all  heart-mysteries  unversed. 

"  Go  to  the  hills,"  said  one,  "  remit  a  while 

This  baneful  diligence  : — at  early  morn 

Court  the  fresh  air,  explore  the  heaths  and  woods  ; 

And,  leaving  it  to  others,  to  foretell, 

By  calculations  sage,  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  tides,  and  when  the  moon  will  be  eclipsed, 

Do  you,  for  your  own  benefit,  construct 

A  calendar  of  flowers,  plucked  as  they  blow 

Where  health  abides,  and  cheerfulness,  and  peace," 

The  attempt  was  made  ; — 'tis  needless  to  report 

How  hopelessly  ; — but  innocence  is  strong, 

And  an  entire  simplicity  of  mind, 

A  thing  most  sacred  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

That  opens,  for  such  sufferers,  relief 

Within  their  souls,  a  fount  of  grace  divine  ; 

And  doth  commend  their  weakness  and  disease 

To  nature's  care,  assisted  in  her  office 

By  all  the  elements  that  round  her  wait 

To  generate,  to  preserve,  and  to  restore  ; 

And  by  her  beautiful  array  of  forms 

Shedding  sweet  influence  from  above,  or  pure 

Delight  exhaling  from  the  ground  they  tread." 

"  Impute  it  not  to  impatience,  if,"  exclaimed 
The  Wanderer,   "  I  infer  that  he  was  healed 
By  perseverance  in  the  course  prescribed." 

"  You  do  not  err  ;  the  powers  that  had  been  lost 
By  slow  degrees,  were  gradually  regained  ; 
The  fluttering  nerves  composed  ;  the  beating  heart 
In  rest  established  ;  and  the  jarring  thoughts 
To  harmony  restored. — But  yon  dark  mould 
Will  cover  him,  in  height  of  strength — to  earth 
Hastily  smitten,  by  a  fever's  force  ; 
Yet  not  with  strokes  so  sudden  as  refused 
Time  to  look  back  with  tenderness  on  her 


THE  EXCURSION.  m 

Whom  he  had  loved  in  passion,— and  to  send 
Some  farewell  words— with  one,  but  one,  request, 
That  from  his  dying  hand  she  would  accept, 
Of  his  possessions,  that  which  most  he  prized  ; 
A  book,  upon  whose  leaves  some  chosen  plants 
By  his  own  hand  disposed  with  nicest  care, 
In  undecaying  beauty  were  preserved  ; 
Mute  register,  to  him,  of  time  and  place, 
And  various  fluctuations  in  the  breast ; 
To  her,  a  monument  of  faithful  love 
Conquered,  and  in  tranquillity  retained  ! 

"  Close  to  his  destined  habitation  lies 
One  who  achieved  a  humbler  victory, 
Though  marvellous  in  its  kind.     A  place  there  is 
High  in  these  mountains,  that  allured  a  band 
Of  keen  adventurers  to  unite  their  pains 
In  search  of  precious  ore  :  who  tried,  were  foiled, 
And  all  desisted,  all  save  him  alone. 
He,  taking  counsel  of  his  own  clear  thoughts, 
And  trusting  only  to  his  own  weak  hands, 
Urged  unremittingly  the  stubborn  work, 
Unseconded,  uncountenanced  ;  then,  as  time 
Passed  on,  while  still  his  lonely  efforts  found 
No  recompense,  derided  ;  and,  at  length, 
By  many  pitied,  as  insane  of  mind  ; 
By  others  dreaded  as  the  luckless  thrall 
Of  subterranean  spirits  feeding  hope 
By  various  mockery  of  sight  and  sound  ; 
Hope,  after  hope,  encouraged  and  destroyed. 
But  when  the  Lord  of  seasons  had  matured 
The  fruits  of  earth  through  space  of  twice  ten  years, 
The  mountain's  entrails  offered  to  his  view 
And  trembling  grasp  the  long-deferred  reward. 
Not  with  more  transport  did  Columbus  greet 
A  world,  his  rich  discovery  !     But  our  swain, 
A  very  hero  till  his  point  was  gained, 
Proved  all  unable  to  support  the  weight 
Of  prosperous  fortune.     On  the  fields  he  looked 
With  an  unsettled  liberty  of  thought, 
Of  schemes  and  wishes  ;  in  the  daylight  walked 
Giddy  and  restless  ;  ever  and  anon 
Quaffed  in  his  gratitude  immoderate  cups  ; 
And  truly  might  be  said  to  die  of  joy  ! 
He  vanished  ;  but  conspicuous  to  this  day 
The  path  remains  that  linked  his  cottage-door 
To  the  mine's  mouth  ;  a  long,  and  slanting  track, 
Upon  the  rugged  mountain's  stony  side, 
Worn  by  his  daily  visits  to  and  from 
The  darksome  centre  of  a  constant  hope. 
The  vestige,  neither  force  of  beating  rain 
Nor  the  vicissitudes  of  frost  and  thaw 
Shall  cause  to  fade,  till  ages  pass  away  : 
And  it  is  named,  in  memory  of  the  event, 
The  path  of  perseverance. " 

"Thou,  from  whom 
Man  has  his  strength,"  exclaimed  the  Wanderer,  "oh  ■ 
Do  Thou  direct  it  J — to  the  virtuous  grant 


436  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  penetrative  eye  which  can  perceive 

In  this  blind  world  the  guiding  vein  of  hope, 

That,  like  this  labourer,  such  may  dig  their  way, 

1  Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified  ;' 

Grant  to  the  wise  his  firmness  of  resolve  1" 

"That  prayer  were  not  superfluous,"  said  the  priest. 
"  Amid  the  noblest  relics,  proudest  dust, 
That  Westminster,  for  Britain's  glory,  holds, 
Within  the  bosom  of  her  awful  pile, 
Ambitiously  collected.     Yet  the  sigh, 
Which  wafts  that  prayer  to  Heaven,  is  due  to  all, 
Wherever  laid,  who  living  fell  below 
Their  virtue's  humbler  mark  ;  a  sigh  of  fain 
If  to  the  opposite  extreme  they  sank. 
How  would  you  pity  her  who  yonder  rests  ; 
Him,  farther  off;  the  pair,  who  here  are  laid  ; 
But  above  all,  that  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Whom  sight  of  this  green  hillock  to  my  mind 
Recalls  ! — He  lived  not  till  his  locks  were  nipped 
By  seasonable  frost  of  age  ;  nor  died 
Before  his  temples,  prematurely  forced 
To  mix  the  manly  brown  with  silver  gray 
Gave  obvious  instance  of  the  sad  effect 
Produced,  when  thoughtless  folly  hath  usurped 
The  natural  crown  that  sage  experience  wears. 
Gay,  volatile,  ingenious,  quick  to  learn, 
And  prompt  to  exhibit  all  that  he  possessed 
Or  could  perform ;  a  zealous  actor — hired 
Into  the  troop  of  mirth,  a  soldier — sworn 
Into  the  lists  of  giddy  enterprise — 
Such  was  he  ;  yet,  as  if  within  his  frame 
Two  several  souls  alternately  had  lodged, 
Two  sets  of  manners  could  the  youth  put  on  ; 
And,  fraught  with  antics  as  the  Indian  bird 
That  writhes  and  chatters  in  her  wiry  cage, 
Was  graceful,  when  it  pleased  him,  smooth  and  still 
As  the  mute  swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream, 
Or,  on  the  waters  of  the  unruffled  lake, 
Anchors  her  placid  beauty.     Not  a  leaf, 
That  flutters  on  the  bough,  more  light  than  he  ; 
And  not  a  flower,  that  droops  in  the  green  shade, 
More  winningly  reserved  !     If  ye  inquire 
How  such  consummate  elegance  was  bred 
Amid  these  wilds,  this  answer  may  suffice, 
'Twas  nature's  will ;  who  sometimes  undertakes, 
For  the  reproof  of  human  vanity, 
Art  to  outstrip  in  her  peculiar  walk. 
Hence,  for  this  favourite,  lavishly  endowed 
With  personal  gifts,  and  bright  instinctive  wit, 
While  both,  embellishing  each  other,  stood 
Yet  farther  recommended  by  the  charm 
Of  fine  demeanour,  and  by  dance  and  song, 
And  skill  in  letters,  every  fancy  shaped 
Fair  expectations  ;  nor  when  to  the  world's 
Capacious  field  forth  went  the  adventurer,  there 
Were  he  and  his  attainments  overlooked, 
Or  scantily  rewarded ;  but  all  hopss, 


THE  EXCURSION.  43? 

Cherished  for  him,  he  suffered  to  depart, 

Like  blighted  buds  ;  or  clouds  that  mimicked  land 

Before  the  sailor's  eye  !  or  diamond  drops 

That  sparkling  decked  the  morning  grass  ;  or  aught 

That  was  attractive — and  hath  ceased  to  be  ! 

Yet,  when  this  prodigal  returned,  the  rites 

Of  joyful  greeting  were  on  him  bestowed, 

Who,  by  humiliation  undeterred, 

Sought  for  his  weariness  a  place  of  rest 

Witnin  his  father's  gates. — Whence  came  he  ? — clothed 

In  tattered  garb,  from  hovels  where  abides 

Necessity,  the  stationary  host 

Of  vagrant  poverty  ;  from  rifted  barns 

Where  no  one  dwells  but  the  wide-staring  owl 

And  the  owl's  prey  ;  from  these  bare  haunts  to  which 

He  had  descended  from  the  proud  saloon, 

He  came  the  ghost  of  beauty  and  of  health, 

The  wreck  of  gaiety  !     But  soon  revived 

In  strength,  in  power  refitted,  he  renewed 

His  suit  to  fortune  ;  and  she  smiled  again 

Upon  a  fickle  ingrate.     Thrice  he  rose, 

Thrice  sank  as  willingly.     For  he,  whose  nerves 

Were  used  to  thrill  with  pleasure,  while  his  voice 

Softly  accompanied  the  tuneful  harp, 

By  the  nice  finger  of  fair  ladies,  touched 

In  glittering  halls,  was  able  to  derive 

Not  less  enjoyment  from  an  abject  choice. 

Who  happier  for  the  moment — who  more  blithe 

Than  this  fallen  spirit  ?  in  those  dreary  holds 

His  talents  lending  to  exalt  the  freaks 

Of  merry-making  beggars, — now,  provoked 

To  laughter  multiplied  in  louder  peals 

By  his  malicious  wit ;  then,  all  enchained 

With  mute  astonishment,  themselves  to  see 

In  their  own  arts  outdone,  their  fame  eclipsed, 

As  by  the  very  presence  of  the  fiend 

Who  dictates  and  inspires  illusive  feats, 

For  knavish  purposes  !  The  city,  too, 

(With  shame  I  speak  it)  to  her  guilty  bowers 

Allured  him,  sunk  so  low  in  self-respect 

As  there  to  linger,  there  to  eat  his  bread, 

Hired  minstrel  of  voluptuous  blandishment  ; 

Charming  the  air  with  skill  of  hand  or  voice, 

Listen  who  would,  be  wrought  upon  who  might, 

Sincerely  wretched  hearts,  or  falsely  gay. 

Such  the  too  frequent  tenor  of  his  boast 

In  ears  that  relished  the  report ;— but  all 

Was  from  his  parents  happily  concealed  ; 

Who  saw  enough  for  blame  and  pitying  love. 

They  also  were  permitted  to  receive 

His  last,  repentant  breath  ;  and  closed  his  eyes, 

No  more  to  open  on  that  irksome  world 

Where  he  had  long  existed  in  the  state 

Of  a  young  fowl  beneath  one  mother  hatched, 

Though  from  another  sprang— of  different  kind : 

Where  he  had  lived,  and  could  not  cease  to  live, 

Distracted  in  propensity  ;  content 

With  neither  element  of  good  or  ill ; 


438  THE  EXCURSION. 

And  yet  in  both  rejoicing  ;  man  unblest ; 

Of  contradictions  infinite  the  slave, 

Till  his  deliverance,  when  mercy  made  him 

One  with  himself,  and  one  with  them  who  sleep." 

"  Tis  strange,"  observed  the  Solitary,  "strange 
It  seems,  and  scarcely  less  than  pitiful, 
That  in  a  land  where  charity  provides 
For  all  that  can  no  longer  feed  themselves, 
A  man  like  this  should  choose  to  bring  his  shame 
To  the  parental  door  ;  and  with  his  sighs 
Infect  the  air  which  he  had  freely  breathed 
In  happy  infancy.     He  could  not  pine, 
Through  lack  of  converse  ;  no,  he  must  have  found 
Abundant  exercise  for  thought  and  speech 
In  his  dividual  being,  self-reviewed, 
Self-catechised,  self-punished. — Some  there  are 
Who,  drawing  near  their  final  home,  and  much 
And  daily  longing  that  the  same  were  reached, 
Would  rather  shun  than  seek  the  fellowship 
Of  kindred  mould. — Such  haply  here  are  laid?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "the  genius  of  our  hills, 
Who  seems,  by  these  stupendous  barriers  cast 
Round  his  domain,  desirous  not  alone 
To  keep  his  own,  but  also  to  exclude 
All  other  progeny,  doth  sometimes  lure, 
Even  by  this  studied  depth  of  privacy, 
The  unhappy  alien  hoping  to  obtain 
Concealment,  or  seduced  by  wish  to  find 
In  place  from  outward  molestation  free, 
Helps  to  eternal  ease.     Of  many  such 
Could  I  discourse  ;  but  as  their  stay  was  brief, 
So  their  departure  only  left  behind 
Fancies,  and  loose  conjectures.     Other  trace 
Survives,  for  worthy  mention,  of  a  pair 
Who,  from  the  pressure  of  their  several  fates, 
Meeting  as  strangers,  in  a  petty  town 
Whose  blue  roofs  ornament  a  distant  reach 
Of  this  far-winding  vale,  remained  as  friends 
True  to  their  choice ;  and  gave  their  bones  in  trust 
To  this  loved  cemetery,  here  to  lodge 
With  unescutcheoned  privacy  interred 
Far  from  the  family-vault. — A  chieftain  one 
By  right  of  birth  ;  within  whose  spotless  breast 
The  fire  of  ancient  Caledonia  burned. 
He,  with  the  foremost  whose  impatience  hailed 
The  Stuart,  landing  to  resume,  by  force 
Of  arms,  the  crown  which  bigotry  had  lost, 
Aroused  his  clan  ;  and,  fighting  at  their  head, 
With  his  brave  sword  endeavoured  to  prevent 
Culloden's  fatal  overthrow. — Escaped 
From  that  disastrous  rout,  to  foreign  shores 
He  fled  ;  and  when  the  lenient  hand  of  time 
Those  troubles  had  appeased,  he  sought  and  gained, 
For  his  obscured  condition,  an  obscure 
Retreat,  within  this  nook  of  English  ground. 
The  other,  born  in  Britain's  southern  tract. 


THE  EXCURSION.  439 

Had  fixed  his  milder  loyalty,  and  placed 

His  gentler  sentiments  of  love  and  hate, 

There,  where  they  placed  them  who  in  conscience  prized 

The  new  succession,  as  a  line  of  kings 

Whose  oath  had  virtue  to  protect  the  land 

Against  the  dire  assaults  of  Papacy 

And  arbitrary  rule.     But  launch  thy  bark 

On  the  distempered  flood  of  public  life, 

And  cause  for  most  rare  triumph  will  be  thine 

If,  spite  of  keenest  eye  and  steadiest  hand, 

The  stream,  that  bears  thee  forward,  prove  not,  soon 

Or  late,  a  perilous  master.     He,  who  oft, 

Under  the  battlements  and  stately  trees 

That  round  his  mansion  cast  a  sober  gloom, 

Had  moralized  on  this,  and  other  truths 

Of  kindred  import,  pleased  and  satisfied, 

Was  forced  to  vent  his  wisdom  with  a  sigh 

Heaved  from  the  heart  in  fortune's  bitterness, 

When  he  had  crushed  a  plentiful  estate 

By  ruinous  contest,  to  obtain  a  seat 

In  Britain's  senate.     Fruitless  was  the  attempt  : 

And  while  the  uproar  of  that  desperate  strife 

Continued  yet  to  vibrate  on  his  ear, 

The  vanquished  Whig,  beneath  a  borrowed  name, 

(For  the  mere  sound  and  echo  of  his  own 

Haunted  him  with  sensation  of  disgust 

That  he  was  glad  to  lose)  slunk  from  the  world 

To  the  deep  shade  of  these  untravelled  wilds  : 

In  which  the  Scottish  laird  had  long  possessed 

An  undisturbed  abode. — Here,  then,  they  met, 

Two  doughty  champions  ;  flaming  Jacobite 

And  sullen  Hanoverian  1    You  might  think 

That  losses  and  vexations,  less  severe 

Than  those  which  they  had  severally  sustained, 

Would  have  inclined  each  to  abate  his  zeal 

For  his  ungrateful  cause  ;  no, — I  have  heard 

My  reverend  father  tell  that,  'mid  the  calm 

Of  that  small  town  encountering  thus,  they  filled. 

Daily,  its  bowling-green  with  harmless  strife  ; 

Plagued  with  uncharitable  thoughts  the  church  ; 

And  vexed  the  market-place.     But  in  the  breasts 

Of  these  opponents  gradually  was  wrought, 

With  little  change  of  general  sentiment, 

Such  change  towards  each  other,  that  their  days 

By  choice  were  spent  in  constant  fellowship  ; 

And  if,  at  times,  they  fretted  with  the  yoke, 

Those  very  bickerings  made  them  love  it  more. 

"A  favourite  boundary  to  their  lengthened  walks 
This  churchyard  was.     And  whether  they  had  come 
Treading  their  path  in  sympathy  and  linked 
In  social  converse,  or  by  some  short  space 
Discreetly  parted  to  preserve  the  peace, 
One  spirit  seldom  failed  to  extend  its  sway 
Over  both  minds,  when  they  a  while  had  marked 
The  visible  quiet  of  this  holy  ground, 
And  breathed  its  soothing  air  ;— the  spirit  of  hope 
And  saintly  magnanimity  ;  that,  spurning 

2  H 


440  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  field  of  selfish  difference  and  dispute, 

And  every  care  which  transitory  things, 

Earth,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  create, 

Doth,  by  a  rapture  of  forgetfulness, 

Preclude  forgiveness,  from  the  praise  debarred, 

Which  else  the  Christian  virtue  might  have  claimed. 

There  live  who  yet  remember  here  to  have  seen 

Their  courtly  figures, — seated  on  the  stump 

Of  an  old  yew,  their  favourite  resting-place. 

But,  as  the  remnant  of  the  long-lived  tree 

Was  disappearing  by  a  swift  decay, 

They,  with  joint  care,  determined  to  erect, 

Upon  its  site,  a  dial,  that  might  stand 

For  public  use  preserved,  and  thus  survive 

As  their  own  private  monument ;  for  this 

Was  the  particular  spot,  in  which  they  wished, 

(And  Heaven  was  pleased  to  accomplish  the  desire) 

That,  undivided,  their  remains  should  lie. 

So,  where  the  mouldered  tree  had  stood,  was  raised 

Yon  structure,  framing,  with  the  ascent  of  steps 

That  to  the  decorated  pillar  lead, 

A  work  of  art  more  sumptuous  than  might  seem 

To  suit  this  place  ;  yet  built  in  no  proud  scorn 

Of  rustic  homeliness  ;  they  only  aimed 

To  ensure  for  it  respectful  guardianship. 

Around  the  margin  of  the  plate,  whereon 

The  shadow  falls  to  note  the  stealthy  hours, 

Winds  an  inscriptive  legend." — At  these  words 

Thither  we  turned  ;  and,  gathered,  as  we  read, 

The  appropriate  sense,  in  Latin  numbers  couched,-  • 

"Time flies  ;  it  is  his  melancholy  task 

To  bring,  and  bear  away,  delusive  hopes. 

And  re-produce  the  troubles  he  destroys ; 

But,  while  his  blindness  thus  is  occupied. 

Discerning  mortal!  do  thou  save  the  will 

Of  time's  eternal  Master,  and  that  peace 

Which  the  world  wants,  shall  be  for  thee  conflnncd." 

"Smooth  verse,  inspired  by  no  unlettered  muse," 
Exclaimed  the  sceptic,  "  and  the  strain  of  thought 
Accords  with  nature's  language  ; — the  soft  voice 
Of  yon  white  torrent  falling  down  the  rocks 
Speaks,  less  distinctly,  to  the  same  effect. 
If,  then,  their  blended  influence  be  not  lost 
Upon  our  hearts,  not  wholly  lost  I  grant, 
Even  upon  mine,  the  more  are  we  required 
To  feel  for  those,  among  our  fellow-men, 
Who,  offering  no  obeisance  to  the  world, 
Are  yet  made  desperate  by  '  too  quick  a  sense 
Of  constant  infelicity' — cut  off 
From  peace  like  exiles  on  some  barren  rock, 
Their  life's  appointed  prison  ;  not  more  free 
Than  sentinels,  between  two  armies,  set, 
With  nothing  better,  in  the  chill  night  air, 
Than  their  own  thoughts  to  comfort  them. — Say  why 
That  ancient  story  of  Prometheus  chained  ? 
The  vulture— the  inexhaustible  repast 
Drawn  from  his  vitals?    Say  what  meant  the  woes 


THE  EXCURSION.  441 

By  Tantalus  entailed  upon  his  race, 
And  the  dark  sorrows  of  the  line  of  Thebes  ? 
Fictions  in  form,  but  in  their  substance  truths, 
Tremendous  truths  !  familiar  to  the  men 
Of  long-past  times  ;  nor  obsolete  in  ours. 
Exchange  the  shepherd's  frock  of  native  gray 
For  robes  with  regal  purple  tinged  ;  convert 
The  crook  into  a  sceptre  ;  give  the  pomp 
Of  circumstance,  and  here  the  tragic  Muse 
Shall  find  apt  subjects  for  her  highest  art. 
Amid  the  groves,  beneath  the  shadowy  hills, 
The  generations  are  prepared  ;  the  pangs, 
The  internal  pangs  are  ready  ;  the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity's  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny." 

"  Though,"  said  the  priest  in  answer,"  these  be  ierms 
Which  a  divine  philosophy  rejects, 
We,  whose  established  and  unfailing  trust 
Is  in  controlling  Providence,  admit 
That,  through  all  stations,  human  life  abounds 
With  mysteries  ; — for,  if  faith  were  left  untried, 
How  could  the  might,  that  lurks  within  her,  then 
Be  shown  ?  her  glorious  excellence — that  ranks 
Among  the  first  of  powers  and  virtues — proved  ? 
Our  system  is  not  fashioned  to  preclude 
That  sympathy  which  you  for  others  ask  ; 
And  I  could  tell,  not  travelling  for  my  theme 
Beyond  these  humble  graves,  of  grievous  crimes 
And  strange  disasters  ;  but  I  pass  them  by, 
Loth  to  disturb  what  Heaven  hath  hushed  in  peace. 
Still  less,  far  less,  am  I  inclined  to  treat 
Of  man  degraded  in  his  Maker's  sight 
By  the  deformities  of  brutish  vice  : 
For,  in  such  portraits,  though  a  vulgar  face 
And  a  coarse  outside  of  repulsive  life 
And  unaffecting  manners  might  at  once 
Be  recognised  by  all"— "Ah  !  do  not  think," 
The  Wanderer  somewhat  eagerly  exclaimed, 
"  Wish  could  be  ours  that  you,  for  such  poor  gain, 
(Gain  shall  I  call  it? — gain  of  what  ?— for  whom  ?) 
Should  breathe  a  word  tending  to  violate 
Your  own  pure  spirit.     Not  a  step  we  look  for 
In  slight  of  that  forbearance  and  reserve 
Which  common  human-heartedness  inspires, 
And  mortal  ignorance  and  frailty  claim, 
Upon  this  sacred  ground,  if  nowhere  else." 

"  True,"  said  the  Solitary,  "be  it  far 
From  us  to  infringe  the  laws  of  charity. 
Let  judgment  here  in  mercy  be  pronounced  : 
This,  self-respecting  nature  prompts,  and  this 
Wisdom  enjoins  ;  but,  if  the  thing  we  seek 
Be  genuine  knowledge,  bear  we  then  in  mind 
How,  from  his  lofty  throne,  the  sun  can  fling 
Colours  as  bright  on  exhalations  bred 
By  weedy  pool  or  pestilential  swamp, 


44fi  TEE  EXCURSION. 

As  by  the  rivulet  sparkling  where  it  runs, 
Or  the  pellucid  lake." 

"Small  risk,"  said  I, 
' '  Of  such  illusion  do  we  here  incur  ; 
Temptation  here  is  none  to  exceed  the  truth  ; 
No  evidence  appears  that  they  who  rest 
Within  this  ground,  were  covetous  of  praise, 
Or  of  remembrance  even,  deserved  or  not. 
Green  is  the  churchyard,  beautiful  and  green  ; 
Ridge  rising  gently  by  the  side  of  ridge  ; 
A  heaving  surface — almost  wholly  free 
From  interruption  of  sepulchral  stones, 
And  mantled  o'er  with  aboriginal  turf 
And  everlasting  flowers.     These  dalesmen  trust 
The  lingering  gleam  of  their  departed  lives 
To  oral  records  and  the  silent  heart ; 
Depository  faithful,  and  more  kind 
Than  fondest  epitaphs  :  for,  if  that  fail, 
What  boots  the  sculptured  tomb  ?  and  who  can  blame, 
Who  rather  would  not  envy,  men  that  feel 
This  mutual  confidence  ;  if,  from  such  source, 
The  practice  flow, — if  thence,  or  from  a  deep 
And  general  humility  in  death  ? 
Nor  should  I  much  condemn  it,  if  it  spring 
From  disregard  of  time's  destructive  power, 
As  only  capable  to  prey  on  things 
Of  earth,  and  human  nature's  mortal  part. 
Yet — in  less  simple  districts,  where  we  see 
Stone  lift  its  forehead  emulous  of  stone 
In  courting  notice,  and  the  ground  all  paved 
With  commendations  of  departed  worth  ; 
Reading,  where'er  we  turn,  of  innocent  lives, 
Of  each  domestic  charity  fulfilled, 
And  sufferings  meekly  borne — I,  for  my  part, 
Though  with  the  silence  pleased  that  here  prevails, 
Among  those  fair  recitals  also  range, 
Soothed  by  the  natural  spirit  which  they  breathe. 
And,  in  the  centre  of  a  world  whose  soil 
Is  rank  with  all  unkindness,  compassed  round 
With  such  memorials,  I  have  sometimes  felt 
That  'twas  no  momentary  happiness 
To  have  one  inclosure  where  the  voice  that  speaks 
In  envy  or  detraction  is  not  heard  ; 
Which  malice  may  not  enter  ;  where  the  traces 
Of  evil  inclinations  are  unknown  ; 
Where  love  and  pity  tenderly  unite 
With  resignation  ;  and  no  jarring  tone 
Intrudes,  the  peaceful  concert  to  disturb 
Of  amity  and  gratitude." 

"Thus  sanctioned," 
The  pastor  said,  "  I  willingly  confine 
My  narratives  to  subjects  that  excite 
Feelings  with  these  accordant  ;  love,  esteem, 
And  admiration  ;  lifting  up  a  veil, 
A  sunbeam  introducing  among  hearts 
Retired  and  covert ;  so  that  ye  shall  have 
Clear  images  before  your  gladdened  eyes 
Of  nature's  unambitious  undeiweod. ' 


THE  EXCURSION.  443 

And  flowers  that  prosper  in  the  shade.     And  when 

I  speak  of  such  among  my  flock  as  swerved 

Or  fell,  those  only  will  I  single  out 

Upon  whose  lapse,  or  error,  something  more 

Than  brotherly  forgiveness  may  attend  : 

To  such  will  we  restrict  our  notice  ;  else 

Better  my  tongue  were  mute.     And  yet  there  are, 

I  feel,  good  reasons  why  we  should  not  leave 

Wholly  untraced  a  more  forbidding  way. 

For  strength  to  persevere  and  to  support, 

And  energy  to  conquer  and  repel ; — 

These  elements  of  virtue,  that  declare 

The  native  grandeur  of  the  human  soul, 

Are  oft-times  not  unprofitably  shown 

In  the  perverseness  of  a  selfish  course  : 

Truth  every  day  exemplified,  no  less 

In  the  gray  cottage  by  the  murmuring  stream 

Than  in  fantastic  conqueror's  roving  camp, 

Or  'mid  the  factious  senate,  unappalled 

While  merciless  proscription  ebbs  and  flows. 

There,"  said  the  vicar,  pointing  as  he  spake, 

"A  woman  rests  in  peace  ;  surpassed  by  few 

In  power  of  mind,  and  eloquent  discourse. 

Tall  was  her  stature  ;  her  complexion  dark 

And  saturnine  :  her  head  not  raised  to  hold 

Converse  with  Heaven,  nor  yet  deprest  towards  earth, 

But  in  projection  carried,  as  she  walked 

For  ever  musing.     Sunken  were  her  eyes  ; 

Wrinkled  and  furrowed  with  habitual  thought 

Was  her  broad  forehead  ;   like  the  brow  of  one 

Whose  visual  nerve  shrinks  from  a  painful  glare 

Of  overpowering  light. — While  yet  a  child, 

She,  'mid  the  humble  flowerets  of  the  vale, 

Towered  like  the  imperial  thistle,  not  unfurnished 

With  its  appropriate  grace,  yet  rather  seeking 

To  be  admired,  than  coveted  and  loved. 

Even  at  that  age,  she  ruled  as  sovereign  queen 

'Mid  her  companions  ;  else  their  simple  sports, 

Wanting  all  relish  for  her  strenuous  mind, 

Had  crossed  her,  only  to  be  shunned  with  scorn. 

Oh  !  pang  of  sorrowful  regret  for  those 

Whom,  in  their  youth,  sweet  study  has  enthralled, 

That  they  have  lived  for  harsher  servitude, 

Whether  in  soul,  in  body,  or  estate  ! 

Such  doom  was  hers  ;  yet  nothing  could  subdue 

Her  keen  desire  of  knowledge  ;  nor  efface 

Those  brighter  images— by  books  impressed 

Upon  her  memory  ;  faithfully  as  stars 

That  occupy  their  places, — and,  though  oft 

Hidden  by  clouds,  and  oft  bedimmed  by  haze, 

Are  not  to  be  extinguished,  or  impaired. 

' '  Two  passions,  both  degenerate,  for  they  bo#i 
Began  in  honour,  gradually  obtained 
Rule  over  her,  and  vexed  her  daily  life  ; 
An  unrelenting  avaricious  thrift ; 
And  a  strange  thraldom  of  maternal  love, 
That  held  her  spirit,  in  its  own  despite, 


444  THE  EXCURSION. 

Bound — by  vexation,  and  regret,  and  scorn, 
Constrained  forgiveness,  and  relenting  vows. 
And  tears,  in  pride  suppressed,  in  shame  concealed- 
To  a  poor  dissolute  son,  her  only  child. 
Her  wedded  days  had  opened  with  mishap, 
Whence  dire  dependence. — What  could  she  perform 
To  shake  the  burthen  off !   Ah  !  there  was  felt 
Indignantly,  the  weakness  of  her  sex. 
She  mused — resolved,  adhered  to  her  resolve  ; 
The  hand  grew  slack  in  almsgiving,  the  heart 
Closed  by  degrees  to  charity  ;  Heaven's  blessing 
Not  seeking  from  that  source,  she  placed  her  trust 
In  ceaseless  pains  and  parsimonious  care, 
Which  got,  and  sternly  hoarded  each  day's  gain. 

"  Thus  all  was  re-established,  and  a  pile 
Constructed,  that  sufficed  for  every  end, 
Save  the  contentment  of  the  builder's  mind  , 
A  mind  by  nature  indisposed  to  aught 
So  placid,  so  inactive,  as  content ; 
A  mind  intolerant  of  lasting  peace, 
And  cherishing  the  pang  which  it  deplored. 
Dread  life  of  conflict !  which  I  oft  compared 
To  the  agitation  of  a  brook  that  runs 
Down  rocky  mountains — buried  now  and  lost. 
In  silent  pools,  and  now  in  eddies  chained, — ■ 
But  never  to  be  charmed  to  gentleness  ; 
Its  best  attainment  fits  of  such  repose 
As  timid  eyes  might  shrink  from  fathoming. 

"A  sudden  illness  seized  her  in  the  strength 
Of  life's  autumnal  season. — Shall  I  tell 
How  on  her  bed  of  death  the  matron  lay, 
To  Providence  submissive,  so  she  thought ; 
But  fretted,  vexed,  and  wrought  upon — almost 
To  anger,  by  the  malady,  that  griped 
Her  prostrate  frame  with  unrelaxing  power, 
As  the  fierce  eagle  fastens  on  the  lamb  ? 
She  prayed,  she  moaned — her  husband's  sister  watched 
Her  dreary  pillow,  waited  on  her  needs ; 
And  yet  the  very  sound  of  that  kind  foot 
Was  anguish  to  her  ears  ! — '  And  must  she  rule,' 
This  was  the  dying  woman  heard  to  say 
In  bitterness,  '  and  must  she  rule  and  reign, 
Sole  mistress  of  this  house,  when  I  am  gone  ? 
Sit  by  my  fire — possess  what  I  possessed — 
Tend  what  I  tended — calling  it  her  own  !' 
Enough  ; — I  fear,  too  much. — One  vernal  evening. 
While  she  was  yet  in  prime  of  health  and  strength, 
I  well  remember,  while  I  passed  her  door  : 
Musing  with  loitering  step,  and  upward  eye 
Turned  towards  the  planet  Jupiter,  that  hung 
Above  the  centre  of  the  vale,  a  voice 
Roused  me,  her  voice  ;  it  said,  '  That  glorious  star 
In  its  untroubled  element  will  shine 
As  now  it  shines,  when  we  are  laid  in  earth, 
And  safe  from  all  our  sorrows.' — She  is  safe, 
And  her  uncharitable  acts,  I  trust, 


T3E  h'XCimSlON.  445 

id    i.iimi  mi  kindnesses,  aie  all  forgiven  ; 
Though,  in  this  vale,  remembered  with  dei  ;>  awe  f 


I  HE  vicar  paused  ;  and  towards  a  seat  advance -l. 
A  long  stone-seat,  fixed  in  the  churchyard  wall  ; 
Part  shaded  by  cool  sycamore,  and  p,.,  | 
Offering  a  sunny  resting-place  to  them 
Who  seek  the  house  of  worship,  while  the  belh- 
Yet  ring  with  all  their  voices,  or  before 
The  last  hath  ceased  its  solitary  knoll. 
Under  the  shade  we  all  sate  down  ;  and  im  i e 
His  office,  uninvited,  he  resumed. 

"  As  on  a  sunny  bank,  a  tender  lamb 
Lurks  in  safe  shelter  from  the  winds  of  March, 
Screened  by  its  parent,  so  that  little  mound 
Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbour  ;  the  small  heap 
Speaks  for  itself;  an  infant  there  doth  rest, 
The  sheltering  hillock  is  the  mother's  grave. 
If  mild  discourse,  and  manners  that  conferred 
A  natural  dignity  on  humblest  rank  ; 
If  gladsome  spirits,  and  benignant  looks, 
That  for  a  face  not  beautiful  did  more 
Than  beauty  for  the  fairest  face  can  do  ; 
And  if  religious  tenderness  of  heart, 
Grieving  for  sin,  and  penitential  tears 
Shed  when  the  clouds  had  gathered  and  distamed 
The  spotless  ether  of  a  naiden  life  ; 
If  these  may  make  a  hallowed  spot  of  earth 
More  holy  in  the  sight  of  God  or  man  ; 
Then,  o'er  that  mould,  a  sanctity  shall  brood, 
Till  the  stars  sicken  at  the  day  of  doom. 

"Ah  !  what  a  warning  for  a  thoughtless  man, 
Could  field  or  grove,  or  any  spot  of  earth, 
Show  to  his  eye  an  image  of  the  pangs 
Which  it  hath  witnessed  ;  render  back  an  echo 
Of  the  sad  steps  by  which  it  hath  been  trod  ! 
There,  by  her  innocent  baby's  precious  grave, 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  turf  that  roofs  her  own, 
The  mother  oft  was  seen  to  stand  or  kneel 
In  the  broad  day,  a  weeping  Magdalene. 
Now  she  is  not ;  the  swelling  turf  reports 
Of  the  fresh  shower,  but  of  poor  Ellen's  tears 
Is  silent ;  nor  is  any  vestige  left 
Of  the  path  worn  by  mournful  tread  of  her 
Who,  at  her  heart's  light  bidding,  once  had  moved 
In  virgin  fearlessness,  with  step  that  seemed 
Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 
Upon  the  mountains  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
In  the  prime  hour  of  sweetest  scents  and  airs. 
Serious  and  thoughtful  was  her  mind  ;  and  3"-et, 
P,y  reconcilement  exquisite  and  rare, 
The  form,  port,  motions  of  this  cottage-girl 


446  THE  EXCURSION. 

Were  such  as  might  have  quickened  and  inspired 

A  Titian's  hand,  addrest  to  picture  forth 

Oread  or  Dryad  glancing  through  the  shade 

What  time  the  hunter's  earliest  horn  is  heard 

Startling  the  golden  hills.     A  wide-spread  elm 

Stands  in  our  valley,  named  the  joyful  tree  ; 

From  dateless  usage  which  our  peasants  hold 

Of  giving  welcome  to  the  first  of  May 

By  dances,  round  its  trunk. — And  if  the  sky 

Permit,  like  honours,  dance  and  song,  are  paid 

To  the  Twelfth  Night ;  beneath  the  frosty  stars 

Or  the  clear  moon.     The  queen  of  these  gay  sports, 

If  not  in  beauty,  yet  in  sprightly  air, 

Was  hapless  Ellen. — No  one  touched  the  ground 

So  deftly,  and  the  nicest  maiden's  locks 

Less  gracefully  were  braided  ; — but  this  praise, 

Methinks,  would  better  suit  another  place. 

"  She  loved,  and  fondly  deemed  herself  beloved. 
The  road  is  dim,  the  current  unperceived, 
The  weakness  painful  and  most  pitiful, 
By  which  a  virtuous  woman,  in  pure  youth, 
May  be  delivered  to  distress  and  shame. 
Such  fate  was  hers. — The  last  time  Ellen  danced, 
Among  her  equals,  round  the  joyful  tree, 
She  bore  a  secret  burthen  ;  and  full  soon 
Was  left  to  tremble  for  a  breaking  vow — 
Then,  to  bewail  a  sternly-broken  vow, 
Alone,  within  her  widowed  mother's  house. 
It  was  the  season  sweet,  of  budding  leaves, 
Of  days  advancing  towards  their  utmost  length, 
And  small  birds  singing  to  their  happy  mates. 
Wild  is  the  music  of  the  autumnal  wind 
Among  the  faded  woods  ;  but  these  blithe  notes 
Strike  the  deserted  to  the  heart  : — I  speak 
Of  what  I  know,  and  what  we  feel  within. 
Beside  the  cottage  in  which  Ellen  dwelt 
Stands  a  tall  ash-tree  ;  to  whose  topmost  twig 
A  thrash  resorts,  and  annually  chants, 
At  morn  and  evening,  from  that  naked  perch, 
While  all  the  undergrove  is  thick  with  leaves, 
A  time-beguiling  ditty,  for  delight 
Of  his  fond  partner,  silent  in  the  nest. 
'Ah  why,'  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 
'Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge, 
And  nature  that  is  kind  in  woman's  breast, 
And  reason  that  in  man  is  wise  and  good, 
And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  Judge, 
Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life, 
To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 
Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 
Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 
To  grant,  or  be  received  ;  while  that  poor  bird, 
Oh,  come  and  hear  him  !    Thou  who  hast  to  me 
Been  faithless,  hear  him,  though  a  lowly  creature, 
One  of  God's  simple  children  that  yet  know  not 
The  universal  Parent,  how  he  sings, 
As  if  he  wished  the  firmament  of  heaven 


THE  EXCURSION.  447 

Should  listen,  and  give  back  to  him  the  voice 
Of  his  triumphant  constancy  and  love  ; 
The  proclamation  that  he  makes,  how  far 
His  darkness  doth  transcend  our  fickle  light !' 

"  Such  was  the  tender  passage,  not  by  me 
Repeated  without  loss  of  simple  phrase, 
Which  I  perused,  even  as  the  words  had  been 
Committed  by  forsaken  Ellen's  hand 
To  the  blank  margin  of  a  valentine, 
Bedropped  with  tears.     'Twill  please  you  to  be  iold 
That,  studiously  withdrawing  from  the  eye 
Of  all  companionship,  the  sufferer  yet 
In  lonely  reading  found  a  meek  resource. 
How  thankful  for  the  warmth  of  summer  days, 
When  she  could  slip  into  the  cottage-barn, 
And  find  a  secret  oratory  there  ; 
Or,  in  the  garden,  under  friendly  veil 
Of  their  long  twilight,  pore  upon  her  book 
By  the  last  lingering  help  of  open  sky, 
Till  the  dark  night  dismissed  her  to  her  bed  ! 
Thus  did  a  waking  fancy  sometimes  lose 
The  unconquerable  pang  of  despised  love. 

"  A  kindlier  passion  opened  on  her  soul 
When  that  poor  child  was  born.     Upon  its  face 
She  looked  as  on  a  pure  and  spotless  gift 
Of  unexpected  promise,  where  a  grief 
Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of— joy 
Far  livelier  than  bewildered  traveller  feels 
Amid  a  perilous  waste,  that  all  night  long 
Hath  harassed  him— toiling  through  fearful  storm 
When  he  beholds  the  first  pale  speck  serene 
Of  day-spring,  in  the  gloomy  east  revealed, 
And  greets  it  with  thanksgiving.    '  Till  this  hour, ' 
Thus  in  her  mother's  hearing  Ellen  spake, 
'  There  was  a  stony  region  in  my  heart ; 
But  He,  at  whose  command  the  parched  rock 
WTas  smitten,  and  poured  forth  a  quenching  stream, 
Hath  softened  that  obduracy,  and  made 
Unlooked-for  gladness  in  the  desert  place, 
To  save  the  perishing  ;  and,  henceforth,  I  look 
Upon  the  light  with  cheerfulness,  for  thee 
My  infant !  and  for  that  good  mother  dear, 
Who  bore  me, — and  hath  prayed  for  me  in  vain  ;— 
Yet  not  in  vain,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.' 
She  spake,  nor  was  the  assurance  unfulfilled  ; 
And  if  heart-rending  thoughts  would  oft  return, 
They  stayed  not  long. — The  blameless  infant  grew; 
The  child  whom  Ellen  and  her  mother  loved 
They  soon  were  proud  of ;  tended  it  and  nursed, 
A  soothing  comforter,  although  forlorn  ; 
Like  a  poor  singing-bird  from  distant  lands  ; 
Or  a  choice  shrub,  which  he,  who  passes  by 
With  vacant  mind,  not  seldom  may  observe 
Fair-flowering  in  a  thinly-peopled  house, 
Whose  window,  somewhat  sadly,  it  adorns. 
Through  four  months'  space  the  infant  drew  its  food 


448  THE  EXCURSION. 

From  the  maternal  breast  ;  then  scruples  rose  ; 

Thoughts,  which  the  rich  are  free  from,  came  and  crossed 

The  sweet  affection.     She  no  more  could  bear 

By  her  offence  to  lay  a  two-fold  weight 

On  a  kind  parent  willing  to  forget 

Their  slend  r  means  ;   so,  to  that  parent's  care 

Trusting  her  child,  she  left  their  common  home, 

And  with  contented  spirit  undertook 

A  foster-mother's  office. 

'Tis  perchance, 
Unknown  to  you  that  in  these  simple  vales 
The  natural  feeling  of  equality 
Is  by  domestic  service  unimpaired  ; 
Yet,  though  such  service  be,  with  us,  removed 
From  sense  of  degradation,  not  the  less 
The  ungentle  mind  can  easily  find  means 
To  impose  severe  restraints  and  laws  unjust  : 
Which  hapless  Ellen  now  was  doomed  to  feel. 
For  (blinded  by  an  over-anxious  dread 
Of  such  excitement  and  divided  thought 
As  with  her  office  would  but  ill  accord) 
The  pair,  whose  infant  she  was  bound  to  nurse, 
Forbade  her  all  communion  with  her  own  ; 
Week  after  week,  the  mandate  they  enforced. 
So  near  ! — yet  not  allowed,  upon  that  sight 
To  fix  her  eyes — alas  !  'twas  hard  to  bear  ! 
But  worse  affliction  must  be  borne — far  worse  ; 
For  'tis  Heaven's  will — that,  after  a  disease 
Begun  and  ended  within  three  days'  space, 
Her  child  should  die  ;  as  Ellen  now  exclaimed, 
Her  own — deserted  child  ! — Once,  only  once, 
She  saw  it  in  that  mortal  malady  : 
And,  on  the  burial  day,  could  scarcely  gain 
Permission  to  attend  its  obsequies. 
She  reached  the  house — last  of  the  funeral  train  ; 
And  some  one,  as  she  entered,  having  chanced 
To  urge  unthinkingly  their  prompt  departure, 
'  Nay,'  said  she,  with  commanding  look,  a  spirit 
Of  anger  never  seen  in  her  before, 
1  Nay,  ye  must  wait  my  time  !'  and  down  she  sate, 
And  by  the  unclosed  coffin  kept  her  seat 
Weeping  and  looking,  looking  on  and  weeping, 
Upon  the  last  sweet  slumber  of  her  child, 
Until  at  length  her  soul  was  satisfied. 

"  You  see  the  infant's  grave  ; — and  to  this  spot. 
The  mother,  oft  as  she  was  sent  abroad, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  errand,  urged  her  steps  : 
Hither  she  came  ;  and  here  she  stood,  or  knelt   " 
In  the  broad  day — a  rueful  Magdalene  } 
So  call  her  ;  for  not  only  she  bewailed 
A  mother's  loss,  but  mourned  in  bitterness 
Her  own  transgression  ;  penitent  sincere 
As  ever  raised  to  Heaven  a  streaming  eye. 
At  length  the  parents  of  the  foster-child, 
Noting  that  in  despite  of  their  commands 
She  still  renewed  and  could  not  but  renew 
Those  visitations,  ceased  to  send  her  forth; 


THE  EXCtmSlON.  449 

Or,  to  the  garden's  narrow  bounds,  confined. 

1  failed  not  to  remind  them  that  they  erred  ; 

For  holy  nature  might  not  thus  be  crossed, 

Thus  wronged  in  woman's  breast :  in  vain  1  pleaded — 

But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen's  life  was  snapped, 

And  the  flower  dropped  ;  as  every  eye  could  see, 

It  hung  its  head  in  mortal  languishment. 

Aided  by  this  appearance,  I  at  length 

Prevailed  ;  and,  from  those  bonds  released,  she  went 

Home  to  her  mother's  house.     The  youth  was  fled  : 

The  rash  betrayer  could  not  face  the  shame 

Or  sorrow  which  his  senseless  guilt  had  caused  ; 

And  little  would  his  presence,  or  proof  given 

Of  a  relenting  soul,  have  now  availed  ; 

For,  like  a  shadow,  he  was  passed  away 

From  Ellen's  thoughts  ;  had  perished  to  her  mind 

For  all  concerns  of  fear,  or  hope,  or  love, 

Save  only  those  which  to  their  common  shame, 

And  to  his  moral  being  appertained  : 

Hope  from  that  quarter  would,  I  know,  have  brought 

A  heavenly  comfort ;  there  she  recognised 

An  unrelaxing  bond,  a  mutual  need  ; 

There,  and,  as  seemed,  there  only. — She  had  built. 

Her  for.d  maternal  heart  had  built,  a  nest, 

In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river's  edge  ; 

That  work  a  summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 

Had  swept  away  ;  and  now  her  spirit  longed 

For  its  last  flight  to  heaven's  security. 

The  bodily  frame  was  wasted  day  by  day  ; 

Meanwhile,  relinquishing  all  other  cares, 

Her  mind  she  strictly  tutored  to  find  peace 

And  pleasure  in  endurance.     Much  she  thought, 

And  much  she  read  ;  and  brooded  feelingly 

Upon  her  own  unworthiness. — To  me, 

As  to  a  spiritual  comforter  and  friend, 

Her  heart  she  opened  ;  and  no  pains  were  spared 

To  mitigate,  as  gently  as  I  could, 

The  sting  of  self-reproach,  with  healing  words. 

Meek  Saint  !  through  patience  glorified  on  earth  : 

In  whom,  as  by  her  lonely  hearth  she  sate, 

The  ghastly  face  of  cold  decay  put  on 

A  sun-like  beauty,  and  appeared  divine  ! 

May  I  not  mention— that,  within  those  walls, 

In  due  observance  of  her  pious  wish, 

The  congregation  joined  with  me  in  prayer 

For  her  soul's  good?    Nor  was  that  office  vain. 

Much  did  she  suffer  :  but,  if  any  friend, 

Beholding  her  condition,  at  the  sight 

Gave  way  to  words  of  pity  or  complaint, 

She  stilled  them  with  a  prompt  reproof,  and  said, 

'  He  who  afflicts  me  knows  what  I  can  bear ; 

And,  when  I  fail,  and  can  endure  no  more, 

Will  mercifully  take  me  to  himself.' 

So,  through  the  cloud  of  death,  her  spirit  passed 

Into  that  pure  and  unknown  world  of  love, 

Where  injury  cannot  come  : — and  here  is  laid 

I  he  mortal  body  by  her  infant's  side." 


460  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  vicar  ceased  ;  and  downcast  looks  made  known 
That  each  had  listened  with  his  inmost  heart. 
For  me,  the  emotion  scarcely  was  less  strong 
Or  less  benign  than  that  which  I  had  felt 
When,  seated  near  my  venerable  friend, 
Beneath  those  shady  elms,  from  him  I  heard 
The  story  that  retraced  the  slow  decline 
Of  Margaret  sinking  on  the  lonely  heath, 
With  the  neglected  house  to  which  she  clung. 
I  noted  that  the  Solitary's  cheek 
Confessed  the  power  of  nature.— Pleased  though  sad, 
More  pleased  than  sad,  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  sate  ; 
Thanks  to  his  pure  imaginative  soul, 
Capacious  and  serene,  his  blameless  life, 
His  knowledge,  wisdom,  love  of  truth,  and  love 
Of  human  kind  !     He  it  was  who  first  broke 
The  pensive  silence,  saying,  ' '  Blest  are  they 
Whose  sorrow  rather  is  to  suffer  wrong 
Than  to  do  wrong,  although  themselves  have  erred. 
This  tale  gives  proof  that  Heaven  most  gently  deals 
With  such,  in  their  affliction.— Ellen's  fate, 
Her  tender  spirit,  and  her  contrite  heart, 
Call  to  my  mind  dark  hints  which  I  have  heard 
Of  one  who  died  within  this  vale,  by  doom 
Heavier,  as  his  offence  was  heavier  far. 
Where,  sir,  I  pray  you,  where  are  laid  the  bones 
Of  Wilfred  Armathwaite  ?"— The  vicar  answered, 
"In  that  green  nook,  close  by  the  churchyard  wall, 
Beneath  yon  hawthorn,  planted  by  myself 
In  memory  and  for  warning,  and  in  sign 
Of  sweetness  where  dire  anguish  had  been  known, 
Of  reconcilement  after  deep  offence, 
There  doth  he  rest.— No  theme  his  fate  supplies 
For  the  smooth  glozings  of  the  indulgent  world  ; 
Nor  need  the  windings  of  his  devious  course 
Be  here  retraced  ; — enough  that,  by  mishap 
And  venial  error,  robbed  of  competence, 
And  her  obsequious  shadow,  peace  of  mind, 
He  craved  a  substitute  in  troubled  joy  ; 
Against  his  conscience  rose  in  arms,  and,  braving 
Divine  displeasure,  broke  the  marriage-vow. 
That  which  he  had  been  weak  enough  to  do 
Was  misery  in  remembrance  ;  he  was  stung, 
Stung  by  his  inward  thoughts,  and  by  the  smiles 
Of  wife  and  children  stung  to  agony. 
Wretched  at  home,  he  gained  no  peace  abroad  ; 
Ranged  through  the  mountains,  slept  upon  the  earth. 
Asked  comfort  of  the  open  air,  and  found 
No  quiet  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
No  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  the  day. 
His  flock  he  slighted  :  his  paternal  fields 
Became  a  clog  to  him,  whose  spirit  wished 
To  fly,  but  whither  ?    And  this  gracious  church. 
That  wears  a  look  so  full  of  peace,  and  hope, 
And  love,  benignant  mother  of  the  vale, 
How  fair  amid  her  brood  of  cottages  1 
She  was  to  him  a  sickness  and  reproach. 
Much  to  the  last  remained  unknown  :  but  this 


THE  EXCURSION.  451 

Is  sure,  that  through  remorse  and  grief  he  died  ; 
Though  pitied  among  men,  absolved  by  God, 
He  could  not  find  forgiveness  in  himself ; 
Nor  could  endure  the  weight  of  his  own  shame. 

"  Here  rests  a  mother.     But  from  her  I  turn, 

And  from  her  grave. — Behold — upon  that  bridge, 

That,  stretching  boldly  from  the  mountain  side, 

Carries  into  the  centre  of  the  vale 

Its  rocks  and  woods — the  cottage  where  she  dwelt, 

And  where  yet  dwells  her  faithful  partner,  left 

(Kail  eight  years  past)  the  solitary  prop 

Of  many  helpless  children.     I  begin 

With  words  that  might  be  prelude  to  a  tale 

Of  sorrow  and  dejection  ;  but  I  feel 

No  sadness,  when  I  think  of  what  mine  eyes 

See  daily  in  that  happy  family. 

Bright  garland  form  they  for  the  pensive  brow 

Of  their  undrooping  father's  widowhood, 

Those  six  fair  daughters,  budding  yet — not  one, 

Not  one  of  all  the  band  a  full-blown  flower  ! 

Depressed,  and  desolate  of  soul,  as  once 

That  father  was,  and  filled  with  anxious  fear, 

Now,  by  experience  taught,  he  stands  assured, 

That  God,  who  takes  away,  yet  takes  not  half 

Of  what  he  seems  to  take  ;  or  gives  it  back, 

Not  to  our  prayer,  but  far  beyond  our  prayer  ; 

He  gives  it — the  boon  produce  of  a  soil 

Which  our  endeavours  have  refused  to  till, 
And  hope  hath  never  watered.     The  abode 

Whose  grateful  owner  can  attest  these  truths, 

Even  were  the  object  nearer  to  our  sight, 
Would  seem  in  no  distinction  to  surpass 

The  rudest  habitations.     Ye  might  think 

That  it  had  sprung  self-raised  from  earth,  or  grown 

Out  of  the  living  rock,  to  be  adorned 

By  nature  only  ;  but,  if  thither  led, 

Ye  would  discover,  then,  a  studious  work 

Of  many  fancies,  prompting  many  hands. 

Brought  from  the  woods  the  honeysuckle  twines 

Around  the  porch,  and  seems,  in  that  trim  place, 

A  plant  no  longer  wild  ;  the  cultured  rose 

There  blossoms,  strong  in  health,  and  will  be  soon 

Roof-high  ;  the  wild  pink  crowns  the  garden  wall, 

And  with  the  flowers  are  intermingled  stones 

Sparry  and  bright,  rough  scatterings  of  the  hills. 

These  ornaments,  that  fade  not  with  the  year, 

A  hardy  girl  continues  to  provide  ; 

Who  mounting  fearlessly  the  rocky  heights, 

Her  father's  prompt  attendant,  does  for  him 

All  that  a  boy  could  do  ;  but  with  delight 

More  keen  and  prouder  daring  ;  yet  hath  she, 

Within  the  garden,  like  the  rest,  a  bed 

Kor  her  own  flowers  and  favourite  herbs — a  space. 

By  sacred  charter,  holden  for  her  use. 

These,  and  whatever  else  the  garden  bears 

Of  fruit  or  flower,  permission  asked  or  not, 

I  freely  gather ;  and  my  leisure  draws 


*52  THE  EXCURSION. 

A  not  unfrequent  pastime  from  the  sight 
Of  the  bees  murmuring  round  their  sheltered  hives 
In  that  inclosure ;  while  the  mountain  rill, 
That  sparkling  thrids  the  rocks,  attunes  his  voice 
To  the  pure  course  of  human  life,  which  there 
Flows  on  in  solitude.     But,  when  the  gloom 
Of  night  is  falling  round  my  steps,  then  most 
This  dwelling  charms  me  ;  often  I  stop  short  ; 
(Who  could  refrain  ?)  and  feed  by  stealth  my  sight 
With  prospect  of  the  company  within, 
Laid  open  through  the  blazing  window  : — there 
I  see  the  eldest  daughter  at  her  wheel 
Spinning  amain,  as  if  to  overtake 
The  never-halting  time  ;  or,  in  her  turn, 
Teaching  some  novice  of  the  sisterhood 
That  skill  in  this,  or  other  household  work, 
Which,  from  her  father's  honoured  hand,  herself, 
While  she  was  yet  a  little-one,  had  learned. 
Mild  man  !  he  is  not  gay,  but  they  are  gay  ; 
And  the  whole  house  seems  filled  with  gaiety. 
Thrice  happy,  then,  the  mother  may  be  deemed, 
The  wife,  who  rests  beneath  that  turf,  from  which 
I  turned,  that  ye  in  mind  might  witness  where, 
And  how,  her  spirit  yet  survives  on  earth." 


BOOK    VII. 

ARGUMENT. 

Impression  of  these  narratives  upon  the  author's  mind— Pastor  invited  to  give  account  of  certaii 
graves  that  lie  apart — Clergyman  and  his  family — Fortunate  influence  of  change  of  situation- 
Activity  in  extreme  old  age — Another  clergyman,  a  character  of  resolute  virtue — Lamentations 
over  misdirected  applause — Instance  of  less  exalted  excellence  in  a  deaf  man — Elevated 
character  of  a  blind  man — Reflection  upon  blindness — Interrupted  by  a  peasant  who  passes — 
His  animal  cheerfulness  and  careless  vivacity — He  occasions  a  digression  on  the  fall  of  beau- 
tiful and  interesting  trees — A  female  infant's  grave — Joy  at  her  birth — Sorrow  at  her  departure 
— A  youthful  peasant — his  patriotic  enthusiasm — distinguished  qualities  and  untimely  death — 
Exultation  of  the  Wanderer,  as  a  patriot,  in  this  picture— Solitary,  how  affected — Monument 
of  a  knight — Traditions  concerning  him — Peroration  of  the  Wanderer  on  the  transitoriness  of 
things  and  the  revolutions  of  society — Hints  at  his  own  past  calling — Thanks  the  Pastor. 

THE  CHURCHYARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

CONTINUED. 

While  thus  from  theme  to  theme  the  historian  passed. 

The  words  he  uttered,  and  the  scene  that  lay 

Before  our  eyes,  awakened  m  my  mind 

Vivid  remembrance  of  those  long-past  hours  ; 

When,  in  the  hollow  of  some  shadowy  vale, 

(What  time  the  splendour  of  the  setting  sun 

Lay  beautiful  on  Snowdon's  sovereign  brow, 

On  Cader  Idris,  or  huge  Penmanmaur) 

A  wandering  youth,  I  listened  with  delight 

To  pastoral  melody  or  warlike  air, 

Drawn  from  the  chords  of  the  ancient  British  harp 

By  some  accomplished  master  ;  while  he  sate 


TEE  EXCURSION.  453 

Amid  the  quiet  of  the  green  recess, 

And  there  did  inexhaustibly  dispense 

An  interchange  of  soft  or  solemn  tunes, 

Tender  or  blithe  ;  now,  as  the  varying  mood 

Of  his  own  spirit  urged, — now,  as  a  voice 

From  youth  or  maiden,  or  some  honoured  chief 

Of  his  compatriot  villagers  (that  hung 

Around  him,  drinking  in  the  impassioned  notes 

Of  the  time-hallowed  minstrelsy)  required 

For  their  heart's  ease  or  pleasure.     Strains  of  power 

Were  they,  to  seize  and  occupy  the  sense  ; 

But  to  a  higher  mark  than  song  can  reach 

Rose  this  pure  eloquence.     And,  when  the  stream 

Which  overflowed  the  soul  was  passed  away, 

A  consciousness  remained  that  it  had  left, 

Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 

Of  memory,  images  and  precious  thoughts, 

That  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroyed. 

"These  grassy  heaps  lie  amicably  close," 
Said  I ,  "  like  surges  heaving  in  the  wind 
Upon  the  surface  of  a  mountain  pool ; 
Whence  comes  it,  then,  that  yonder  we  behold 
Five  graves,  and  only  five,  that  rise  together 
Unsociably  sequestered,  and  encroaching 
On  the  smooth  playground  of  the  village  school?" 

The  vicar  answered.     ' '  No  disdainful  pride 
In  them  who  rest  beneath,  nor  any  course 
Of  strange  or  tragic  accident,  hath  helped 
To  place  those  hillocks  in  that  lonely  guise. 
Once  more  look  forth,  and  follow  with  your  sight 
The  length  of  road  that  from  yon  mountain's  base 
Through  bare  inclosures  stretches,  till  its  line 
Is  lost  within  a  little  tuft  of  trees, — 
Then,  reappearing  in  a  moment,  quits 
The  cultured  fields, — and  up  the  heathy  waste, 
Mounts,  as  you  see,  in  mazes  serpentine, 
Towards  an  easy  outlet  of  the  vale. 
That  little  shady  spot,  that  sylvan  tuft, 
By  which  the  road  is  hidden,  also  hides 
A  cottage  from  our  view, — though  I  discern, 
(Ye  scarcely  can)  amid  its  sheltering  trees, 
The  smokeless  chimney-top. — All  unembowered 
And  naked  stood  that  lowly  parsonage 
(For  such  in  truth  it  is,  and  appertains 
To  a  small  chapel  in  the  vale  beyond) 
When  hither  came  its  last  inhabitant. 

' '  Rough  and  forbidding  were  the  choicest  roadr, 
By  which  our  northern  wilds  could  then  be  crossed  \ 
And  into  most  of  these  secluded  vales 
Was  no  access  for  wain,  heavy  or  light. 
So,  at  his  dwelling-place  the  priest  arrived 
With  store  of  household  goods,  in  panniers  slung 
On  sturdy  horses  graced  with  jingling  bells, 
And  on  the  back  of  more  ignoble  beast  ; 
That,  with  like  burthen  of  effects  most  prized 


454,  THE  EXCUEMON. 

Or  easiest  carried,  closed  the  motley  train. 

Young  was  I  then,  a  schoolboy  of  eight  years  : 

But  still,  methinks,  I  see  them  as  they  passed 

In  order,  drawing  tow'rds  their  wished-for  home. 

Rocked  by  the  motion  of  a  trusty  ass 

Two  ruddy  children  hung,  a  well-poised  freight, 

Each  in  his  basket  nodding  drowsily  ; 

Their  bonnets,  I  remember,  wreathed  with  flowers 

Which  told  it  was  the  pleasant  month  of  June ; 

And,  close  behind,  the  comely  matron  rode, 

A  woman  of  soft  speech  and  gracious  smile, 

And  with  a  lady's  mien.— From  far  they  came, 

Even  from  Northumbrian  hills  ;  yet  theirs  had  been 

A  merry  journey — rich  in  pastime — cheered 

By  music,  prank,  and  laughter-stirring  jest ; 

And  freak  put  on,  arch  word  dropped — to  swell 

The  cloud  of  fancy  and  uncouth  surmise 

That  gathered  round  the  slowly-moving  train. 

'  Whence  do  they  come  ?  and  with  what  errand  charged? 

Belong  they  to  the  fortune-telling  tilbe 

Who  pitch  their  tents  beneath  the  green-wood  tree? 

Or  are  they  strollers,  furnished  to  enact 

Fair  Rosamond,  and  the  Children  of  the  Wood, 

And,  by  that  whiskered  Tabby's  aid,  set  forth 

The  lucky  venture  of  sage  Whittington, 

When  the  next  village  hears  the  show  announced 

By  blast  of  trumpet  ?'     Plenteous  was  the  growth 

Of  such  conjectures,  overheard,  or  seen 

On  many  a  staring  countenance  portrayed 

Of  boor  or  burgher,  as  they  marched  along. 

And  more  than  once  their  steadiness  of  face 

Was  put  to  proof,  and  exercise  supplied 

To  their  inventive  humour,  by  stern  looks, 

And  questions  in  authoritative  tone, 

From  some  staid  guardian  of  the  public  peace, 

Checking  the  sober  steed  on  which  he  rode, 

In  his  suspicious  wisdom  ;  oftener  still 

By  notice  indirect,  or  blunt  demand 

From  traveller  halting  in  his  own  despite, 

A  simple  curiosity  to  ease. 

Of  which  adventures,  that  beguiled  and  cheered 

Their  grave  migration,  the  good  pair  would  tell, 

With  undiminished  glee,  in  hoary  age. 

"  A  priest  he  was  by  function  ;  but  his  course 
From  his  youth  up,  and  high  as  manhood's  noon, 
(The  hour  of  life  to  which  he  then  was  brought) 
Had  been  irregular,  I  might  say,  wild  ; 
By  books  unsteadied,  by  his  pastoral  care 
Too  little  checked.     An  active,  ardent  mind  ; 
A  fancy  pregnant  with  resource  and  scheme 
To  cheat  the  sadness  of  a  rainy  day  : 
Hands  apt  for  all  ingenious  arts  and  games  ; 
A  generous  spirit,  and  a  body  strong 
To  cope  with  stoutest  champions  of  the  bowl ; 
Had  earned  for  him  sure  welcome,  and  the  rights 
Of  a  prized  visitant,  in  the  jolly  hall 
Of  country  squire,  or  at  the  statelier  board 


TEE  EXCURSION.  455 

Of  duke  or  earl,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pomp 
Withdrawn,— to  while  away  the  summer  hours 
In  condescension  among  rural  guests. 

"With  these  high  comrades  he  had  revelled  long, 
Frolicked  industriously,  a  simple  clerk, 
By  hopes  of  coming  patronage  beguiled 
Till  the  heart  sickened.     So  each  loftier  aim 
Abandoning  and  all  his  showy  friends, 
For  a  life's  stay,  though  slender,  yet  assured, 
He  turned  to  this  secluded  chapelry, 
That  had  been  offered  to  his  doubtful  choice 
By  an  unthought-of  patron.     Bleak  and  bare 
They  found  the  cottage,  their  allotted  home  : 
Naked  without,  and  rude  within  ;  a  spot 
With  which  the  scantily-provided  cure 
Not  long  had  been  endowed  :  and  far  remote 
The  chapel  stood,  divided  from  that  house 
By  an  unpeopled  tract  of  mountain  waste. 
Yet  cause  was  none,  whate'er  regret  might  hang 
On  his  own  mind,  to  quarrel  with  the  choice 
Or  the  necessity  that  fixed  him  here  ; 
Apart  from  old  temptations,  and  constrained 
To  punctual  labour  in  his  sacred  charge. 
See  him  a  constant  preacher  to  the  poor  ! 
And  visiting,  though  not  with  saintly  zeal, 
Yet  when  need  was,  with  no  reluctant  will, 
The  sick  in  body,  or  distrest  in  mind  ; 
And,  by  as  salutary  change,  compelled 
To  rise  from  timely  sleep,  and  meet  the  day 
With  no  engagement,  in  his  thoughts,  more  proud 
Or  splendid  than  his  garden  could  afford, 
His  fields,— or  mountains  by  the.  heath-cock  ranged, 
Or  the  wild  brooks  ;  from  which  he  now  returned 
Contented  to  partake  the  quiet  meal 
Of  his  own  board,  where  sate  his  gentle  mate 
And  three  fair  children,  plentifully  fed, 
Though  simply,  from  their  little  household  farm  ; 
With  acceptable  treat  of  fish  or  fowl 
By  nature  yielded  to  his  practised  hand- 
To  help  the  small  but  certain  comings-in 
Of  that  spare  benefice.     Yet  not  the  less 
Theirs  was  a  hospitable  board,  and  theirs 
A  charitable  door.— So  days  and  years 
Passed  on  ;— the  inside  of  that  rugged  house 
Was  trimmed  and  brightened  by  the  matron's  care, 
And  gradually  enriched  with  things  of  price, 
Which  might  be  lacked  for  use  or  ornament. 
What,  though  no  soft  and  costly  sofa  there 
Insidiously  stretched  out  its  lazy  length, 
And  no  vain  mirror  glittered  on  the  walls, 
Yet  were  the  windows  of  the  low  abode 
By  shutters  weather-fended,  which  at  once 
Repelled  the  storm  and  deadened  its  loud  roar. 
There  snow-white  curtains  hung  in  decent  folds  ; 
Tough  moss,  and  long-enduring  mountain  plants, 
That  creep  along  the  ground  with  sinuous  trail, 
Were  nicely  braided   and  composed  a  work 

'  2  1 


45**  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Like  Indian  mats,  that  with  appropriate  grace 

Lay  at  the  threshold  and  the  inner  doors  ; 

And  a  fair  carpet,  woven  of  home-spun  wool, 

But  tinctured  daintily  with  florid  hues, 

For  seemliness  and  warmth,  on  festal  days, 

Covered  the  smooth  blue  slabs  of  mountain  stone 

With  which  the  parlour-floor  in  simplest  guise 

Of  pastoral  homesteads,  had  been  long  inlaid. 

These  pleasing  works  the  housewife's  skill  produced 

Meanwhile  the  imsedentary  master's  hand 

Was  busier  with  his  task — to  rid,  to  plant, 

To  rear  for  food,  for  shelter,  and  delight  ; 

A  thriving  covert  !     And  when  wishes,  formed 

In  youth,"  and  sanctioned  by  the  riper  mind, 

Restored  me  to  my  native  valley,  here 

To  end  my  days  ;  well  pleased  was  I  to  see 

The  once-bare  cottage,  on  the  mountain-side, 

Screened  from  assault  of  every  bitter  blast ; 

While  the  dark  shadows  of  the  summer  leaves 

Danced  in  the  breeze,  upon  its  mossy  roof. 

Time,  which  had  thus  afforded  willing  help 

To  beautify  with  nature's  fairest  growth 

This  rustic  tenement,  had  gently  shed, 

Upon  its  master's  frame,  a  wintry  grace  ; 

The  comeliness  of  unenfeebled  age. 

But  how  could  I  say,  gently?  for  he  still 

Retained  a  flashing  eye,  a  burning  palm, 

A  stirring  foot,  a  head  which  beat  at  nights 

Upon  its  pillow  with  a  thousand  schemes.    • 

Few  likings  had  he  dropped,  few  pleasures  lost ; 

Generous  and  charitable,  prompt  to  serve  ; 

And  still  his  harsher  passions  kept  their  hold, 

Anger  and  indignation  ;  still  he  loved 

The  sound  of  titled  names,  and  talked  in  glee 

Of  long-past  banquetings  with  high-born  friends  : 

Then,  from  those  lulling  fits  of  vain  delight 

Uproused  by  recollected  injury,  railed 

At  their  false  ways  disdainfully, — and  oft 

In  bitterness,  and  with  a  threatening  eye 

Of  fire,  incensed  beneath  its  hoary  brow. 

These  transports,  with  staid  look  of  pure  good-will 

And  with  soft  smile,  his  consort  would  reprove. 

She,  far  behind  him  in  the  race  of  years, 

Yet  keeping  her  first  mildness,  was  advanced 

Far  nearer,  in  the  habit  of  her  soul, 

To  that  still  region  whither  all  are  bound. 

Him  might  we  liken  to  the  setting  sun 

As  seen  not  seldom  on  some  gusty  day, 

Struggling  and  bold,  and  shining  from  the  west 

With  an  inconstant  and  unmellowed  light ; 

She  was  a  soft  attendant  cloud,  that  hung 

As  if  with  wish  to  veil  the  restless  orb  ; 

From  which  it  did  itself  imbibe  a  ray 

Of  pleasing  lustre. — But  no  more  of  this  ; 

I  better  love  to  sprinkle  on  the  sod 

That  now  divides  the  pair,  or  rather  say 

That  still  unites  them,  praises,  like  heaven's  dew. 

Without  reserve  descending  upon  both. 


TEE  EXCURSION.  457 

"  Our  very  first  in  eminence  of  years 
This  old  man  stood,  the  patriarch  of  the  vale  ! 
And,  to  his  unmolested  mansion,  death 
Had  never  come,  through  space  of  forty  years  ; 
Sparing  both  old  and  young  in  that  abode. 
Suddenly  then  they  disappeared  ■  not  twice 
Had  summer  scorched  the  fields  ;  not  twice  had  fallen, 
On  those  high  peaks,  the  first  autumnal  snow, 
Before  the  greedy  visiting  was  closed, 
And  the  long-privileged  house  left  empty— swept 
As  by  a  plague  :  yet  no  rapacious  plague 
Had  been  among  them  ;  all  was  gentle  death, 
One  after  one,  with  intervals  of  peace. 
A  happy  consummation  !  an  accord 
Sweet,  perfect,— to  be  wished  for  !  save  that  here 
Was  something  to  which  mortal  sense  might  sound 
Like  harshness,— that  the  old  gray-headed  sire, 
The  oldest,  he  was  taken  last, — survived 
When  the  meek  partner  of  his  age,  his  son, 
His  daughter,  and  that  late  and  high-prized  gift, 
His  little  smiling  grandchild,  were  no  more. 

' ' '  All  gone,  all  vanished  !  he  deprived  and  bare, 
How  will  he  face  the  remnant  of  his  life  ? 
What  will  become  of  him  ?'  we  said,  and  mused 
In  sad  conjectures — '  Shall  we  meet  him  now 
Haunting  with  rod  and  line  the  craggy  brooks  ? 
Or  shall  we  overhear  him,  as  we  pass, 
Striving  to  entertain  the  lonely  hours 
With  music  ?'  (for  he  had  not  ceased  to  touch 
The  harp  or  viol  which  himself  had  framed, 
For  their  sweet  purposes,  with  perfect  skill. ) 
'  What  titles  will  he  keep  ?  will  he  remain 
Musician,  gardener,  builder,  mechanist, 
A  planter,  and  a  rearer  from  the  seed  i 
A  man  of  hope  and  forward-looking  mind 
Even  to  the  last !'— Such  was  he,  unsubdued. 
But  Heaven  was  gracious  ;  yet  a  little  while, 
And  this  survivor,  with  his  cheerful  throng 
Of  open  schemes,  and  all  his  inward  hoard 
Of  unsunned  griefs,  too  many  and  too  keen, 
Was  overcome  by  unexpected  sleep, 
In  one  blest  moment.     Like  a  shadow  thrown 
Softly  and  lightly  from  a  passing  cloud, 
Death  fell  upon  him,  while  reclined  he  lay 
For  noon-tide  solace  on  the  summer  grass, 
The  warm  lap  of  his  mother  earth  :  and  so, 
Their  lenient  term  of  separation  past, 
That  family,  (whose  graves  you  there  behold,) 
By  yet  a  higher  privilege,  once  more 
Were  gathered  to  each  other." 

Calm  of  mind 
And  silence  waited  on  these  closing  words  ; 

Until  the  Wanderer  (whether  moved  by  fear 

Lest  in  those  passages  of  life  were  some 

That  might  have  touched  the  sick  heart  of  his  friend 

Too  nearly,  or  intent  to  reinforce 

His  own  firm  spirit  in  degree  deprest 


458  THE  EXCURSION. 

By  tender  sorrow  for  our  mortal  state) 

Thus  silence  broke  :  "  Behold  a  thoughtless  man 

From  vice  and  premature  decay  preserved 

By  useful  habits,  to  a  fitter  soil 

Transplanted  ere  too  late. — The  hermit,  lodged 

In  the  untrodden  desert,  tells  his  beads, 

With  each  repeating  its  allotted  prayer, 

And  thus  divides  and  thus  relieves  the  time  ; 

Smooth  task,  with  his  compared,  whose  mind  could  string, 

Not  scantily,  bright  minutes  on  the  thread 

Of  keen  domestic  anguish, — and  beguile 

A  solitude,  unchosen,  unprofessed  ; 

Till  gentlest  death  released  him. — Far  from  us 

Be  the  desire — too  curiously  to  ask 

Mow  much  of  this  is  but  the  blind  result 

Of  cordial  spirits  and  vital  temperament, 

And  what  to  higher  powers  is  justly  due. 

But  you,  sir,  know  that  in  a  neighbouring  vale 

A  priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 

Fall  to  the  ground  ;  whose  gifts  of  nature  lie 

Retired  from  notice,  lost  in  attributes 

Of  reason, — honourably  effaced  by  debts 

Which  her  poor  treasure-house  is  content  to  owe, 

And  conquests  over  her  dominion  gained, 

To  which  her  forwardness  must  needs  submit. 

I  n  this  one  man  is  shown  a  temperance — proof 

Against  all  trials  ;  industry  severe 

And  constant  as  the  motion  of  the  day  ; 

Stern  self-denial  round  him  spread,  with  shade 

That  might  be  deemed  forbidding,  did  not  there 

All  generous  feelings  flourish  and  rejoice  ; 

Forbearance,  charity  in  deed  and  thought, 

And  resolution  competent  to  take 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  simplicity 

All  that  her  holy  customs  recommend, 

And  the  best  ages  of  the  world  prescribe. 

Preaching,  administering,  in  every  work 

Of  his  sublime  vocation,  in  the  walks 

Of  worldly  intercourse  'twixt  man  and  man, 

And  in  his  humble  dwelling,  he  appears 

A  labourer,  with  moral  virtue  girt, 

With  spiritual  graces,  like  a  glory,  crowned." 

"  Doubt  can  be  none,"  the  pastor  said,  "  for  whom 
This  portraiture  is  sketched. — The  great,  the  good, 
The  well-beloved,  the  fortunate,  the  wise, 
These  titles  emperors  and  chiefs  have  borne, 
Honour  assumed  or  given  :  and  him,  the  Wonderful, 
Our  simple  shepherds,  speaking  from  the  heart, 
Deservedly  have  styled. — From  his  abode 
In  a  dependent  chapelry,  that  lies 
Behind  yon  hill,  a  poor  and  rugged  wild, 
Which  in  his  soul  he  lovingly  embraced, — 
And,  having  once  espoused,  would  never  quit ; 
Hither,  ere  long,  that  lowly,  great,  good  man 
Will  be  conveyed.    An  unelaborate  stone 
May  cover  him  ;  and  by  its  help,  perchance, 
A  century  shall  hear  his  name  pronounced, 


THE  EXCURSION.  459 

With  images  attendant  on  the  sound  ; 

Then,  shall  the  slowly  gathering  twilight  close 

In  utter  night ;  and  of  his  course  remain 

No  cognizable  vestiges,  no  more 

Than  of  this  breath,  which  shapes  itself  in  words 

To  speak  of  him,  and  instantly  dissolves. 

Noise  is  there  not  enough  in  doleful  war, 

But  that  the  heaven-born  poet  must  stand  forth 

And  lend  the  echoes  of  his  sacred  shell 

To  multiply  and  aggravate  the  din  ? 

Pangs  are  there  not  enough  in  hopeless  love — 

And,  in  requited  passion,  all  too  much 

Of  turbulence,  anxiety,  and  fear — 

But  that  the  minstrel  of  the  rural  shade 

Must  tune  his  pipe,  insidiously  to  nurse 

The  perturbation  in  the  suffering  breast, 

And  propagate  its  kind,  where'er  he  may  ? 

Ah,  who  (and  with  such  rapture  as  befits 

The  hallowed  theme)  will  rise  and  celebrate 

The  good  man's  deeds  and  purposes  ;  retrace 

His  struggles,  his  discomfiture  deplore, 

His  triumphs  hail,  and  glorify  his  end  ? 

That  virtue,  like  the  fumes  and  vapoury  clouds 

Through  fancy's  heat  redounding  in  the  brain, 

And  like  the  soft  infections  of  the  heart, 

By  charm  of  measured  words  may  spread  o'er  field, 

Hamlet,  and  town  ;  and  piety  survive 

Upon  the  lips  of  men  in  hall  or  bower  ; 

Not  for  reproof,  but  high  and  warm  delight, 

And  grave  encouragement,  by  song  inspired. 

Vain  thought !  but  wherefore  murmur  or  repine  ? 

The  memory  of  the  just  survives  in  heaven  : 

And,  without  sorrow,  will  this  ground  receive 

That  venerable  clay.     Meanwhile  the  best 

Of  what  it  holds  confines  us  to  degrees 

In  excellence  less  difficult  to  reach, 

And  milder  worth  :  nor  need  we  travel  far 

From  those  to  whom  our  last  regards  were  paid, 

For  such  example. 

Almost  at  the  root 
Of  that  tall  pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I  sit  at  eve, 
Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a  long  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward  ;  there,  beneath 
A  plain  blue  stone,  a  gentle  dalesman  lies, 
From  whom,  in  early  childhood,  was  withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.     He  grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in  loneliness  of  soul  ; 
And  this  deep  mountain  valley  was  to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.     The  bird  of  dawn 
Did  never  rouse  this  cottager  from  sleep 
With  startling  summons  ;  not  for  his  delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted  ;  not  for  him 
Murmured  the  labouring  bee.     When  stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake 
Into  a  thousand  thousand  sparkling  waves, 
Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud  on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty  crags, 


460  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 

Was  silent  as  a  picture  :  evermore 

Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe'er  he  moved. 

Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 

Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 

Of  rural  labours  ;  the  steep  mountain-side 

Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog  ; 

The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  swayed ; 

And  the  ripe  corn  before  his  sickle  fell 

Among  the  jocund  reapers.     For  himself, 

All  watchful  and  industrious  as  he  was, 

He  wrought  not ;  neither  field  nor  flock  he  owaed : 

No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within  his  mind  ; 

Nor  husband's  love,  nor  father's  hope  or  care. 

Though  born  a  younger  brother,  need  was  none 

That  from  the  floor  of  his  paternal  home 

He  should  depart,  to  plant  himself  anew. 

And  when,  mature  in  manhood,  he  beheld 

His  parents  laid  in  earth,  no  loss  ensued 

Of  rights  to  him  ;  but  he  remained  well  pleased, 

By  the  pure  bond  of  independent  love, 

An  inmate  of  a  second  family, 

The  fellow-labourer  and  friend  of  him 

To  whom  the  small  inheritance  had  fallen. 

Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was  a  weight 

That  pressed  upon  his  brother's  house,  for  books 

Were  ready  comrades  whom  he  could  not  tire, — 

Of  whose  society  the  blameless  man 

Was  never  satiate.     Their  familiar  voice, 

Even  to  old  age,  with  unabated  charm 

Beguiled  his  leisure  hours  ;  refreshed  his  thoughts  ; 

Beyond  its  natural  elevation  raised 

His  introverted  spirit  ;  and  bestowed 

Upon  his  life  an  outward  dignity 

Which  all  acknowledged.     The  dark  winter  night, 

The  stormy  day,  had  each  its  own  resource  ; 

Song  of  the  muses,  sage  historic  tale, 

Science  severe,  or  word  of  Holy  Writ 

Announcing  immortality  and  joy 

To  the  assembled  spirits  of  the  just, 

From  imperfection  and  decay  secure. 

Thus  soothed  at  home,  thus  busy  in  the  field, 

To  no  perverse  suspicion  he  gave  way, 

No  languor,  peevishness,  nor  vain  complaint  : 

And  they,  who  were  about  him,  did  not  fail 

In  reverence,  or  in  courtesy  ;  they  prized 

His  gentle  manners  : — and  his  peaceful  smiles, 

The  gleams  of  his  slow-varying  countenance, 

Were  met  with  answering  sympathy  and  love. 

"  At  length,  when  sixty  years  and  five  were  told, 
A  slow  disease  insensibly  consumed 
The  powers  of  nature ;  and  a  few  short  steps 
Of  friends  and  kindred  bore  him  from  his  home 
(Yon  cottage  shaded  by  the  woody  crags) 
To  the  profounder  stillness  of  the  grave. 
Nor  was  his  funeral  denied  the  grace 
Of  many  tears,  virtuous  and  thoughtful  grief ; 


THE  EXCURSION.  m 

Heart-sorrow  rendered  sweet  by  gratitude. 

And  now  that  monumental  stone  preserves 

His  name,  and  unambitiously  relates 

How  long,  and  by  what  kindly  outward  aids, 

And  in  what  pure  contentedness  of  mind, 

The  sad  privation  was  by  him  endured. 

And  yon  tall  pine-tree,  whose  composing  sound 

Was  wasted  on  the  good  man's  living  ear, 

Hath  now  its  own  peculiar  sanctity  ; 

And,  at  the  touch  of  every  wandering  breeze, 

Murmurs,  not  idly,  o'er  his  peaceful  grave. 

"Soul-cheering  light,  most  bountiful  of  things  ! 
Guide  of  our  way,  mysterious  comforter  ! 
Whose  sacred  influence,  spread  through  earth  and  heaven, 
We  all  too  thanklessly  participate, 
Thy  gifts  were  utterly  withheld  from  him 
Whose  place  of  rest  is  near  yon  ivied  porch. 
Yet,  of  the  wild  brooks  ask  if  he  complained  ; 
Ask  of  the  channelled  rivers  if  they  held 
A  safer,  easier,  more  determined  course. 
What  terror  doth  it  strike  into  the  mind 
To  think  of  one,  who  cannot  see,  advancing 
Towards  some  precipice's  airy  brink  ! 
But,  timely  warned,  he  would  have  stayed  his  steps  ; 
Protected,  say  enlightened,  by  his  ear, 
And  on  the  very  edge  of  vacancy 
Not  more  endangered  than  a  man  whose  eye 
Beholds  the  gulf  beneath. — No  floweret  blooms 
Throughout  the  lofty  range  of  these  rough  hills, 
Or  in  the  woods,  that  could  from  him  conceal 
Its  birth-place  ;  none  whose  figure  did  not  live 
Upon  his  touch.     The  bowels  of  the  earth 
Enriched  with  knowledge  his  industrious  mind  ; 
The  ocean  paid  him  tribute  from  the  stores 
Lodged  in  her  bosom  ;  and,  by  science  led, 
His  genius  mounted  to  the  plains  of  heaven. 
Methinks  I  see  him— how  his  eye-balls  rolled, 
Beneath  his  ample  brow,  in  darkness  paired, — 
But  each  instinct  with  spirit ;  and  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  countenance  alive  with  thought, 
Fancy,  and  understanding  ;  while  the  voice 
Discoursed  of  natural  or  moral  truth 
With  eloquence,  and  such  authentic  power, 
That,  in  his  presence,  humbler  knowledge  stood 
Abashed,  and  tender  pity  overawed." 

"  A  noble — and,  to  unreflecting  minds, 
A  marvellous  spectacle,"  the  wanderer  said, 
' '  Beings  like  these  present !     But  proof  abounds 
Upon  the  earth  that  faculties,  which  seem 
Extinguished,  do  not,  therefore,  cease  to  be. 
And  to  the  mind  among  her  powers  of  sense 
This  transfer  is  permitted, — not  alone 
That  the  bereft  their  recompense  may  win  ; 
But  for  remoter  purposes  of  love 
And  charity  ;  nor  last  nor  least  for  this, 
That  to  the  imagination  may  be  given 


462  THE  EXCURSION. 

A  type  and  shadow  of  an  awful  truth  ; 

How,  likewise,  under  sufferance  divine, 

Darkness  is  banished  from  the  realms  of  death, 

By  man's  imperishable  spirit,  quelled. 

Unto  the  men  who  see  not  as  we  see 

Futurity  was  thought,  in  ancient  times, 

To  be  laid  open,  and  they  prophesied. 

And  know  ye  not  that  from  the  blind  have  flowed 

The  highest,  holiest,  raptures  of  the  lyre  ; 

And  wisdom  married  to  immortal  verse?" 

Among  the  humble  worthies,  at  our  feet 
Lying  insensible  to  human  praise, 
Love,  or  regret, — whose  lineaments  would  next 
Have  been  portrayed,  I  guess  not ;  but  it  chanced 
That  near  the  quiet  churchyard  where  we  sate 
A  team  of  horses,  with  a  ponderous  freight 
Pressing  behind,  adown  a  rugged  slope, 
Whose  sharp  descent  confounded  their  array, 
Came  at  that  moment,  ringing  noisily. 

"  Here,"  said  the  pastor,  "  do  we  muse,  and  mourn 
The  waste  of  death  ;  and  lo  !  the  giant  oak 
Stretched  on  his  bier — that  massy  timber  wain  ; 
Nor  fail  to  note  the  man  who  guides  the  team." 

He  was  a  peasant  of  the  lowest  class  : 
Gray  locks  profusely  round  his  temples  hung 
In  clustering  curls,  like  ivy,  which  the  bite 
Of  winter  cannot  thin  ;  the  fresh  air  lodged 
Within  his  cheek,  as  light  within  a  cloud  ; 
And  he  returned  our  greeting  with  a  smile. 
When  he  had  passed,  the  Solitary  spake  : 
"  A  man  he  seems  of  cheerful  yesterdays 
And  confident  to-morrows, — with  a  face 
Not  worldly-minded  ;  for  it  bears  too  much 
Of  nature's  impress, — gaiety  and  health, 
Freedom  and  hope  ;  but  keen,  withal,  and  shrewd. 
His  gestures  note,  — and  hark  !  his  tones  of  voice 
Are  all  vivacious  as  his  mien  and  looks." 

The  pastor  answered.     ' '  You  have  read  him  well. 
Year  after  year  is  added  to  his  store 
With  silent  increase  :  summers,  winters— past, 
Past  or  to  come  ;  yea,  boldly  might  I  say, 
Ten  summers  and  ten  winters  of  a  space 
That  lies  beyond  life's  ordinary  bounds, 
Upon  his  sprightly  vigour  cannot  fix 
The  obligation  of  an  anxious  mind, 
A  pride  in  having,  or  a  fear  to  lose  ; 
Possessed  like  outskirts  of  some  large  domain, 
By  any  one  more  thought  of  than  by  him 
Who  holds  the  land  in  fee,  its  careless  lord  ! 
Yet  is  the  creature  rational — endowed 
With  foresight ;  hears,  too,  every  Sabbath  day, 
The  Christian  promise  with  attentive  ear  ; 
Nor  will,  I  trust,  the  Majesty  of  heaven 


TIIE  EXCURSION.  463 

Reject  the  incense  offered  up  by  him, 

Though  of  the  kind  which  beasts  and  birds  present 

In  grove  or  pasture  ;  cheerfulness  of  soul, 

From  trepidation  and  repining  free. 

How  many  scrupulous  worshippers  fall  down 

Upon  their  knees  and  daily  homage  pay 

Less  worthy,  less  religious  even,  than  his  ! 

"  This  qualified  respect,  the  old  man's  due, 
Is  paid  without  reluctance  ;  but  in  truth," 
(Said  the  good  vicar  with  a  fond  half-smile,) 
' '  I  feel  at  times  a  motion  of  despite 
Towards  one,  whose  bold  contrivances  and  skill, 
As  you  have  seen,  bear  such  conspicuous  part 
In  works  of  havoc  ;  taking  from  these  vales, 
One  after  one,  their  proudest  ornaments. 
Full  oft  his  doings  leave  me  to  deplore 
Tall  ash-tree  sown  by  winds,  by  vapours  nursed, 
In  the  dry  crannies  of  the  pendent  rocks  ; 
Light  birch,  aloft  upon  the  horizon's  edge, 
A  veil  of  glory  for  the  ascending  moon  ; 
And  oak  whose  roots  by  noontide  dew  were  damped, 
And  on  whose  forehead  inaccessible 
The  raven  lodged  in  safety. — Many  a  ship 
Launched  into  Morecamb  Bay,  to  him  hath  owed 
Her  strong  knee-timbers,  and  the  mast  that  bears 
The  loftiest  of  her  pendants.     He,  from  park 
Or  forest,  fetched  the  enormous  axle-tree 
That  whirls  (how  slow  itself  ! )  ten  thousand  spindles  :— 
And  the  vast  engine  labouring  in  the  mine, 
Content  with  meaner  prowess,  must  have  lacked 
The  trunk  and  body  of  its  marvellous  strength, 
If  his  undaunted  enterprise  had  failed 
Among  the  mountain  coves. 

Yon  household  fir, 
A  guardian  planted  to  fence  off  the  blast, 
But  towering  high  the  roof  above,  as  if 
Its  humble  destination  were  forgot  ; 
That  sycamore,  which  annually  holds 
Within  its  shade,  as  in  a  stately  tent 
On  all  sides  opening  to  the  fanning  breeze, 
A  grave  assemblage,  seated  while  they  shear 
The  fleece-incumbered  flock  ; — the  joyful  elm, 
Around  whose  trunk  the  maidens  dance  in  May  ; — 
And  the  Lord's  Oak  ; — would  plead  their  several  rights 
In  vain,  if  he  were  master  of  their  fate  ; 
His  sentence  to  the  axe  would  doom  them  all. 
But,  green  in  age  and  lusty  as  he  is, 
And  promising  to  keep  his  hold  on  earth 
Less,  as  might  seem,  in  rivalship  with  men 
Than  with  the  forest's  more  enduring  growth, 
His  own  appointed  hour  will  come  at  last  ; 
And  like  the  haughty  spoilers  of  the  world, 
This  keen  destroyer,  in  his  turn,  must  fall. 

' '  Now  from  the  living  pass  we  once  again  • 
From  age,"  the  priest  continued,  "  turn  your  thoughts ; 
From  age,  that  often  unlamented  drops, 


464  THE  EXCURSION. 

And  mark  that  daisied  hillock,  three  spans  long  ! 
Seven  lusty  sons  sate  daily  round  the  board 
Of  Gold-rill  side  ;  and  when  the  hope  'had  ceased 
Of  other  progeny,  a  daughter  then 
Was  given,  the  crowning  bounty  of  the  whole  ; 
And  so  acknowledged  with  a  tremulous  joy 
Felt  to  the  centre  of  that  heavenly  calm 
With  which  by  nature  every  mother's  soul 
Is  stricken,  in  the  moment  when  her  throes 
Are  ended,  and  her  ears  have  heard  the  cry 
Which  tells  her  that  a  living  child  is  born, — 
And  she  lies  conscious,  in  a  blissful  rest, 
That  the  dread  storm  is  weathered  by  them  both. 
The  father — him  at  his  unlooked-for  gift 
A  bolder  transport  seizes.     From  the  side 
Of  his  bright  hearth,  and  from  his  open  door  ; 
Day  after  day  the  gladness  is  diffused 
To  all  that  come,  and  almost  all  that  pass ; 
Invited,  summoned,  to  partake  the  cheer 
Spread  on  the  never-empty  board,  and  drink- 
Health  and  good  wishes  to  his  new-born  girl, 
From  cups  replenished  by  his  joyous  hand. 
Those  seven  fair  brothers  variously  were  moved 
Each  by  the  thoughts  best  suited  to  his  years  : 
But  most  of  all  and  with  most  thankful  mind 
The  hoary  grandsire  felt  himself  enriched  ; 
A  happiness  that  ebbed  not,  but  remained 
To  fill  the  total  measure  of  the  soul  ! 
From  the  low  tenement,  his  own  abode, 
Whither,  as  to  a  little  private  cell, 
He  had  withdrawn  from  bustle,  care,  and  noise, 
To  spend  the  Sabbath  of  old  age  in  peace, 
Once  every  day  he  duteously  repaired 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  the  slumbering  babe  : 
For  in  that  female  infant's  name  he  heard 
The  silent  name  of  his  departed  wife  ! 
Heart-stirring  music  !  hourly  heard  that  name  ; 
Full  blest  he  was.     '  Another  Margaret  Green, ' 
Oft  did  he  say,  '  was  come  to  Gold-rill  side. ' 
Oh  !  pang  unthought  of,  as  the  precious  boon 
Itself  had  been  unlooked  for  ; — oh  !  dire  stroke 
Of  desolating  anguish  for  them  all  ! 
Just  as  the  child  could  totter  on  the  floor, 
And,  by  some  friendly  finger's  help  upstayed, 
Range  round  the  garden  walk,  while  she  perchance 
Was  catching  at  some  novelty  of  spring, 
Ground-flower,  or  glossy  insect  from  its  cell 
Drawn  by  the  sunshine — at  that  hopeful  season 
The  winds  of  March,  smiting  insidiously, 
Raised  in  the  tender  passage  of  the  throat 
Viewless  obstruction  ;  whence — all  unforewarned, 
The  household  lost  their  pride  and  soul's  delight. 
But  time  hath  power  to  soften  all  regrets, 
And  prayer  and  thought  can  bring  to  worst  distress 
Due  resignation.     Therefore,  though  some  tears 
Fail  not  to  spring  from  either  parent's  eye 
Oft  as  they  hear  of  sorrow  like  their  own, 
Yet  this  departed  little  one,  too  long 


THE  EXCURSION.  465 

The  innocent  troubler  of  their  quiet,  sleeps 
In  what  may  now  be  called  a  peaceful  grave. 

"  On  a  bright  day,  the  brightest  of  the  year, 
These  mountains  echoed  with  an  unknown  sound 
A  volley,  thrice  repeated  o'er  the  corse 
Let  down  into  the  hollow  of  that  grave, 
Whose  shelving  sides  are  red  with  naked  mould. 
Ye  rains  of  April,  duly  wet  this  earth  ! 
Spare,  burning  sun  of  midsummer,  these  sods, 
That  they  may  knit  together,  and  therewith 
Our  thoughts  unite  in  kindred  quietness  ! 
Nor  so  the  valley  shall  forget  her  loss. 
Dear  youth,  by  young  and  old  alike  beloved, 
To  me  as  precious  as  my  own  ! — Green  herbs 
May  creep  (I  wish  that  they  would  softly  creep) 
Over  thy  last  abode,  and  we  may  pass 
Reminded  less  imperiously  of  thee  ; — 
The  ridge  itself  may  sink  into  the  breast 
Of  earth,  the  great  abyss,  and  be  no  more  ; 
Yet  shall  not  thy  remembrance  leave  our  hearts, 
Thy  image  disappear ! 

The  mountain  ash 
No  eye  can  overlook,  when  'mid  a  grove 
Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head 
Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 
Spring's  richest  blossoms  ;  and  ye  may  have  marked 
By  a  brook  side  or  solitary  tarn, 
How  she  her  station  doth  adorn  ; — the  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brightened  round  her.     In  his  native  vale 
Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  youth  appear  ; 
A  sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 
By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature's  hand 
Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.     As  old  bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  gods, 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form  ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade, 

Discovered  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 

Of  mortals,  (if  such  fables  without  blame 

May  find  chance-mention  on  this  sacred  ground,* 

So,  through  a  simple  rustic  garb's  disguise, 

And  through  the  impediment  of  rural  cares, 

In  him  revealed  a  scholar's  genius  shone  ; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men's  sight, 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a  hero  walked 

Our  unpretending  valley. — How  the  coit 

Whizzed  from  the  stripling's  arm  !  If  touched  by  him, 

The  inglorious  foot-ball  mounted  to  the  pitch 

Of  the  lark's  flight,— or  shaped  a  rainbow  carve, 

Aloft,  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field  ! 

The  indefatigable  fox  had  learned 

To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 

With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 

To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 

Was  loth  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved  ; 


466  THE  EXCURSION. 

Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 
To  guard  the  royal  brood.  The  sailing  glead, 
The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe, 
The  sportive  sea-gull  dancing  with  the  waves, 
And  cautious  water-fowl,  from  distant  clime:, 
Fixed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  mere, 
Were  subject  to  young  Oswald's  steady  aim. 

"  From  Gallia's  coast  a  tyrant  hurled  his  threats ; 
Our  country  marked  the  preparation  vast 
Of  hostile  forces  ;  and  she  called — with  voice 
That  filled  her  plains  and  reached  her  utmost  shores, 
And  in  remotest  vales  was  heard — to  arms  ! 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  here  you  might  have  seen 
The  shepherd's  gray  to  martial  scarlet  changed, 
That  flashed  uncouthly  through  the  woods  and  fields. 
Ten  hardy  striplings,  all  in  bright  attire, 
And  graced  with  shining  weapons,  weekly  marched, 
From  this  lone  valley,  to  a  central  spot 
Where,  in  assemblage  with  the  flower  and  choice 
Of  the  surrounding  district,  they  might  learn 
The  rudiments  of  war  ;  ten — hardy,  strong, 
And  valiant ;  but  young  Oswald,  like  a  chief 
And  yet  a  modest  comrade,  led  them  forth 
From  their  shy  solitude,  to  face  the  world, 
With  a  gay  confidence  and  seemly  pride  ; 
Measuring  the  soil  beneath  their  happy  feet 
Like  youths  released  from  labour,  and  yet  bound 
To  most  laborious  service,  though  to  them 
A  festival  of  unencumbered  ease  ; 
The  inner  spirit  keeping  holiday, 
Like  vernal  ground  to  Sabbath  sunshine  left. 

' '  Oft  have  I  marked  him,  at  some  leisure  hour, 
Stretched  on  the  grass  or  seated  in  the  shade 
Among  his  fellows,  while  an  ample  map 
Before  their  eyes  lay  carefully  outspread, 
From  which  the  gallant  teacher  would  discourse, 
Now  pointing  this  way  and  now  that.  — '  Here  flows,' 
Thus  would  he  say,  '  the  Rhine,  that  famous  stream  1 
Eastward,  the  Danube  toward  this  inland  sea, 
A  mightier  river,  winds  from  realm  to  realm  ; — 
And,  like  a  serpent,  shows  his  glittering  back 
Bespotted  with  innumerable  isles. 
Here  reigns  the  Russian,  there  the  Turk  ;  observe 
His  capital  city  ! — Thence — along  a  tract 
Of  livelier  interest  to  his  hopes  and  fears 
His  finger  moved,  distinguishing  the  spots 
Where  wide-spread  conflict  then  most  fiercely  raged  ; 
Nor  left  unstigmatized  those  fatal  fields 
On  which  the  sons  of  mighty  Germany 
Were  taught  a  base  submission. — '  Here  behold 
A  nobler  race,  the  Switzers,  and  their  land  ; 
Vales  deeper  far  than  these  of  ours,  huge  woods, 
And  mountains  white  with  everlasting  snow !' 
And,  surely,  he,  that  spake  with  kindling  brow, 
Was  a  true  patriot,  hopeful  as  the  best 
Of  that  young  peasantry,  who,  in  our  days, 


THE  EXCURSION.  467 

I  lave  fought  and  perished  for  Helvetia's  rights,- 
Ali,  not  in  vain  !  -or  those  who,  in  old  time, 
For  work  of  happier  issue,  to  the  side 
Of  Tell  came  trooping  from  a  thousand  huts, 
When  he  had  risen  alone  !  No  braver  youth 
Descended  from  Judean  heights  to  march 
With  righteous  Joshua  ;  or  appeared  in  arms 
When  grove  was  felled,  and  altar  was  cast  down, 
And  Gideon  blew  the  trumpet,  soul-enflamed, 
And  strong  in  hatred  of  idolatry." 

This  spoken,  from  his  seat  the  pastor  rose, 
And  moved  towards  the  grave  ;  instinctively 
His  steps  we  followed  ;  and  my  voice  exclaimed, 
"  Power  to  the  oppressors  of  the  world  is  given, 
A  might  of  which  they  dream  not.     Oh  !  the  curse, 
To  be  the  awakener  of  divinest  thoughts, 
Father  and  founder  of  exalted  deeds, 
And  to  whole  nations  bound  in  servile  straits 
The  liberal  donor  of  capacities 
More  than  heroic  !  this  to  be,  nor  yet 
Have  sense  of  one  connatural  wish,  nor  yet 
Deserve  the  least  return  of  human  thanks  ; 
Winning  no  recompense  but  deadly  hate 
With  pity  mixed,  astonishment  with  scorn  !  " 

When  these  involuntary  words  had  ceased, 
The  Pastor  said,  ' '  So  Providence  is  served  ; 
The  forked  weapon  of  the  skies  can  send 
Illumination  into  deep,  dark  holds, 
Which  the  mild  sunbeam  hath  not  power  to  pierce. 
Why  do  ye  quake,  intimidated  thrones? 
For,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  debt 
Which  to  outrageous  wrong  the  sufferer  owes, 
Europe,  through  all  her  habitable  seats, 
Is  thirsting  for  their  overthrow,  who  still 
Exist,  as  pagan  temples  stood  of  old, 
By  very  horror  of  their  impious  rites 
Preserved  ;  are  suffered  to  extend  their  pride. 
Like  cedars  on  the  top  of  Lebanon 
Darkening  the  sun. — But  less  impatient  thoughts, 
And  love  '  all  hoping  and  expecting  all,' 
This  hallowed  grave  demands  ;  where  rests  in  peace 
A  humble  champion  of  the  better  cause  ; 
A  peasant  youth,  so  call  him,  for  he  asked 
No  higher  name  ;  in  whom  our  country  showed, 
As  in  a  favourite  son,  most  beautiful. 
In  spite  of  vice,  and  misery,  and  disease, 
Spread  with  the  spreading  of  her  wealthy  arts, 
England,  the  ancient  and  the  free,  appeared, 
In  him  to  stand,  before  my  swimming  eyes, 
Unconquerably  virtuous  and  secure. 
No  more  of  this,  lest  I  offend  his  dust  : 
Short  was  his  life,  and  a  brief  tale  remains. 

"  One  summer's  day — a  day  of  annual  pomp 
And  solemn  chase— from  morn  to  sultry  noon 


466  THE  EXCURSION. 

His  steps  had  followed,  fleetest  of  the  fleet, 
The  red-deer  driven  along  its  native  heights 
With  cry  of  hound  and  horn  ;  and,  from  that  toil 
Returned  with  sinews  weakened  and  relaxed, 
This  generous  youth,  too  negligent  of  self, 
Plunged — 'mid  a  gay  and  busy  throng  convened 
To  wash  the  fleeces  of  his  father's  flock — 
Into  the  chilling  flood. 

Convulsions  dire 
Seized  him  that  self-same  night  ;  and  through  the  space 
Of  twelve  ensuing  days  his  frame  was  wrenched 
Till  nature  rested  from  her  work  in  death. 
To  him,  thus  snatched  away,  his  comrades  paid 
A  soldier's  honours.     At  his  funeral  hour 
Bright  was  the  sun,  the  sky  was  cloudless  blue — 
A  golden  lustre  slept  upon  the  hills  ; 
And  if  by  chance  a  stranger,  wandering  there, 
From  some  commanding  eminence  had  looked 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A  glittering  spectacle  ;  but  every  face 
Was  pallid, — seldom  hath  that  eye  been  moist 
With  tears  that  wept  not  then  ;  nor  were  the  few 
Who  from  their  dwellings  came  not  forth  to  join 
In  this  sad  service,  less  disturbed  than  we. 
They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 
Of  instantaneous  thunder,  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  grave  ; 
And  distant  mountains  echoed  with  a  sound 
Of  lamentation  never  heard  before  !" 


The  pastor  ceased. — My  venerable  friend 
Victoriously  upraised  his  clear  bright  eye  ; 
And,  when  that  eulogy  was  ended,  stood 
Enrapt, — as  if  his  inward  sense  perceived 
The  prolongation  of  some  still  response, 
Sent  by  the  ancient  soul  of  this  wide  land, 
The  spirit  of  its  mountains  and  its  seas, 
Its  cities,  temples,  fields,  its  awful  power, 
Its  rights  and  virtues — by  that  Deity 
Descending  ;  and  supporting  his  pure  hear: 
With  patriotic  confidence  and  joy. 
And,  at  the  last  of  those  memorial  words, 
The  pining  Solitary  turned  aside, 
Whether  through  manly  instinct  to  conceal 
Tender  emotions  spreading  from  the  heart 
To  his  worn  cheek  ;  or  with  uneasy  shame 
For  those  cold  humours  of  habitual  spleen, 
That  fondly  seeking  in  dispraise  of  man 
Solace  and  self-excuse,  had  sometimes  urged 
To  self-abuse,  a  not  ineloquent  tongue. 
Right  tow'rd  the  sacred  edifice  his  steps 
Had  been  directed  ;  and  we  saw  him  now 
Intent  upon  a  monumental  stone, 
Whose  uncouth  form  was  grafted  on  the  wall 
Or  rather  seemed  to  have  grown  into  the  side 
Of  the  rude  pile  :  as  oft-times  trunks  of  trees, 
Where  nature  works  in  wild  and  craggy  spots. 


TEE  EXCURSION.  4$ 

Are  seen  incorporate  with  the  living  rock — 

To  endure  for  aye.     The  vicar,  taking  note 

Of  his  employment,  with  a  courteous  smile 

Exclaimed.  "  The  6agest  antiquarian's  eye 

That  task  would  foil ;"  then,  letting  fall  his  voice 

While  he  advanced,  thus  spake  :   "Tradition  tells 

That,  in  Eliza's  golden  days,  a  knight 

Came  on  a  war-horse  sumptuously  attired, 

And  fixed  his  home  in  this  sequestered  vale. 

'Tis  left  untold  if  here  he  first  drew  breath, 

Or  as  a  stranger  reached  this  deep  recess, 

Unknowing,  and  unknown.     A  pleasing  thought 

t  sometimes  entertain,  that,  haply  bound 

To  Scotland's  court  in  service  of  his  queen, 

Or  sent  on  mission  to  some  northern  chief 

Of  England's  realm,  this  vale  he  might  have  seen 

With  transient  observation  ;  and  thence  caught 

An  image  fair,  which,  brightening  in  his  soul 

When  joy  of  war  and  pride  of  chivalry 

Languished  beneath  accumulated  years, 

Had  power  to  draw  him  from  the  world— resolved 

To  make  that  paradise  his  chosen  home 

To  which  his  peaceful  fancy  oft  had  turned. 

Vague  thoughts  are  these  ;  but,  if  belief  may  rest 

U  pon  unwritten  story  fondly  traced 

From  sire  to  son,  in  this  obscure  retreat 

The  knight  arrived,  with  pomp  of  spear  and  shield. 
And  borne  upon  a  charger  covered  o'er 

With  gilded  housings.     And  the  lofty  steed— 

His  sole  companion,  and  his  faithful  friend, 

Whom  he,  in  gratitude,  let  loose  to  range 

In  fertile  pastures— was  beheld  with  eyes 

Of  admiration  and  delightful  awe 

By  those  untravelled  dalesmen.     With  less  pride, 

Yet  free  from  touch  of  envious  discontent, 

They  saw  a  mansion  at  his  bidding  rise, 

Like  a  bright  star,  amid  the  lowly  band 

Of  their  rude  homesteads.     Here  the  warrior  dwelt, 

And,  in  that  mansion,  children  of  his  own, 

Or  kindred,  gathered  round  him.     As  a  tree 

That  falls  and  disappears,  the  house  is  gone  ; 

And,  through  improvidence,  or  want  of  love 

For  ancient  worth  and  honourable  things, 

The  spear  and  shield  are  vanished,  which  the  knight 

Hung  in  his  rustic  hall.     One  ivied  arch 

Myself  have  seen,  a  gateway,  last  remains 

Of  that  foundation  in  domestic  care 

Raised  by  his  hands.     And  now  no  trace  is  left 

Of  the  mild-hearted  champion,  save  this  stone, 

Faithless  memorial  !  and  his  family  name 

Borne  by  yon  clustering  cottages,  that  sprang 

From  out  the  ruins  of  his  stately  lodge  : 

These  and  the  name  and  title  at  full  length,— 
Sir  2lUrrtJ  Ertfjtng,  with  appropriate  words 

Accompanied,  still  extant,  in  a  wreath 

Or  posy— girding  round  the  several  fronts 

Of  three  clear-sounding  and  harmonious  bells, 

That  in  the  steeple  hang,  his  pious  gift," 


470  THE  EXCURSION. 

"So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies," 
The  gray-haired  Wanderer  pensively  exclaimed, 
' '  All  that  this  world  is  proud  of.     From  their  spheres 
The  stars;of  human  glory  are  cast  down  ; 
Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings, 
Princes,  and  emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  palms 
Of  all  the  mighty,  withered  and  consumed  ! 
Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence, 
Long  to  protect  her  own.     The  man  himself 
Departs  ;  and  soon  is  spent  the  line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  bodily  image,  in  the  mind, 
In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit, 
Did  most  resemble  him.     Degrees  and  ranks, 
Fraternities  and  orders  —heaping  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old, 
And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirmed 
And  re-confirmed — are  scoffed  at  with  a  smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  desolation  aimed  :  to  slow  decline 
These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow  ; 
Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state 
Expire  ;  and  nature's  pleasant  robe  of  green, 
Humanity's  appointed  shroud,  enwraps 
Their  monuments  and  their  memory.     The  vast  frame 
Of  social  nature  changes  evermore 
Her  organs  and  her  members  with  decay 
Restless,  and  restless  generation,  powers 
And  functions  dying  and  produced  at  need, — 
And  by  this  law  the  mighty  whole  subsists  : 
With  an  ascent  and  progress  in  the  main  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  how  disproportioned  to  the  hopes 
And  expectations  of  self-flattering  minds  ! 
The  courteous  knight,  whose  bones  are  here  interred, 
Lived  in  an  age  conspicuous  as  our  own 
For  strife  and  'erment  in  the  minds  of  men  , 
Whence  alteration,  in  the  forms  of  things, 
Various  and  vast.     A  memorable  age  ! 
Which  did  to  him  assign  a  pensive  lot, 
To  linger  'mid  the  last  of  those  bright  clo'ids, 
That,  on  the  steady  breeze  of  honour,  sailed 
In  long  procession  calm  and  beautiful. 
He  who  had  seen  his  own  bright  order  fade, 
And  its  devotion  gradually  decline, 
(While  war,  relinquishing  the  lance  and  shield, 
Her  temper  changed,  and  bowed  to  other  laws,) 
Had  also  witnessed  in  his  morn  of  life, 
That  violent  commotion,  which  o'erthrew, 
In  town,  and  city,  and  sequestered  glen, 
Altar,  and  cross,  and  church  of  solemn  roof, 
And  old  religious  house — pile  after  pile  ; 
And  shook  the  tenants  out  into  the  fields, 
Like  wild  beasts  without  home  !    Their  hour  was  come ; 
But  why  no  softening  thought  of  gratitude, 
No  just  remembrance,  scruple,  ov  wise  doubt  ? 
Benevolence  is  mild  ;  nor  borrows  help, 
Save  at  worst  need,  from  bold  impetuous  force, 
Fitliest  allied  to  anger  and  revenge. 
But  human-kind  rejoices  in  the  might 


THE  EXCURSION.  471 

Of  mutability  ;   and  airy  1 

Dancing  around  lier,  hinder  and  disturb 

Those  meditations  of  the  soul,  that  feed 

The  retrospective  virtues.     Festive  songs 

Break  frjom  the  maddened  nations  at  the  sight 

Of  sudden  overthrow  ;  and  cold  neglect 

Is  the  sure  consequence  of  slow  decay. 

Even,"  said  the  Wanderer,  "as  that  courteous  knight, 

Bound  by  his  vow  to  labour  for  redress 

( )l  all  who  suffer  wrong,  and  to  enact 

By  sword  and  lance  the  law  of  gentleness, 

If  I  may  venture  of  myself  to  speak, 

Trusting  that  not  incongruously  I  blend 

Low  things  with  lofty,  I  too  shall  be  doomed 

To  outlive  the  kindly  use  and  fair  esteem 

Of  the  poor  calling  which  my  youth  embraced 

With  no  unworthy  prospect.     But  enough  ; 

Thoughts  crowd  upon  me — and  'twere  seemlier  now 

To  stop,  and  yield  our  gracious  teacher  thanks 

For  the  pathetic  records  which  his  voice 

Hath  here  delivered  ;  words  of  heartfelt  truth, 

Tending  to  patience  when  affliction  strikes  ; 

To  hope  and  love  ;  to  confident  repose 

In  God  ;  and  reverence  for  the  dust  of  man." 


BOOK    VIII. 

ARGUMENT. 

Pastor's  apprehensions  that  he  might  have  detained  his  auditors  too  long — Invitation  to  his  house 
— Solitary  disinclined  to  comply — rallies  the  Wanderer ;  and  somewhat  playfully  draws  a  com- 
parison between  his  itinerant  profession  and  that  of  the  knight-errant — which  leads  to  Wanderer's 
giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the  country  from  the  manufacturing  spirit — Favourable  effects 
— The  other  side  of  the  picture,  and  chiefly  as  it  has  affected  the  humbler  classes — Wandered 
asserts  the  hollowness  of  all  national  grandeur  if  unsupported  by  moral  worth — gives  instances 
— Physical  science  unable  to  support  itself — Lamentations  over  an  excess  of  manufacturing 
industry  among  the  humbler  classes  of  society — Picture  of  a  child  employed  in  a  cotton-mill — 
Ignorance  and  degradation  of  children  among  the  agricultural  population  reviewed — Con- 
versation broken  off  by  a  renewed  invitation  by  the  pastor — Path  leading  to  his  house—  Its 
appearance  described — His  daughter — His  wife — His  son  (a  boy)  enters  with  his  •ompanion^ 
Their  happy  appearance— The  Wanderer  how  affected  by  the  sight  of  them. 

THE  PARSONAGE. 

The  pensive  sceptic  of  the  lonely  vale 

To  those  acknowledgments  subscribed  his  own, 

With  a  sedate  compliance,  which  the  priest 

Failed  not  to  notice,  inly  pleased,  and  said, 

"  If  ye,  by  whom  invited  I  commenced 

These  narratives  of  calm  and  humble  life, 

Be  satisfied,  'tis  well, — the  end  is  gained  : 

And,  in  return  lor  sympathy  bestowed 

And  patient  listening,  thanks  accept  from  me. 

Life,  death,  eternity  !  momentous  themes 

Are  they — and  might  demand  a  seraph's  tongue, 

Were  they  not  equal  to  their  own  support  ; 

2    K 


472  THE  EXCURSION. 

And  therefore  no  incompetence  of  mins 
Could  do  them  wrong.     The  universal  forms 
Of  human  nature,  in  a  spot  like  this, 
Present  themselves  at  once  to  all  men's  view  ; 
Ye  wished  for  act  and  circumstance  that  make 
The  individual  ';nown  and  understood  ; 
And  such  as  my  best  judgment  could  select 
From  what  the  place  afforded  have  been  given  ; 
Though  apprehensions  crossed  me,  in  the  course 
Of  this  self-pleasing  exercise,  that  ye 
My  zeal  to  his  would  liken,  who  unlocks 
A  cabinet  with  gems  or  pictures  stored. 
And  draws  them  forth — soliciting  regard 
To  this,  and  this,  as  worthier  than  the  last, 
Till  the  spectator,  who  a  while  was  pleased 
More  than  the  exhibitor  himself,  becomes 
Weary  and  faint,  and  longs  to  be  released. 
But  let  us  hence  !  my  dwelling  is  in  sight, 
And  there — " 

At  this  the  Solitary  shrunk 
With  backward  will  ;  but,  wanting  not  aadrtsc 
That  inward  motion  to  disguise,  he  said 
To  his  compatriot,  smiling  as  he  spake  : 
"  The  peaceable  remains  of  this  good  knight 
Would  be  disturbed,  I  fear,  with  wrathful  scorn, 
If  consciousness  could  reach  him  where  he  lies 
That  one,  albeit  of  these  degenerate  times, 
Deploring  changes  past,  or  dreading  change 
Foreseen,  had  dared  to  couple,  even  in  thought, 
The  fine  vocation  of  the  sword  and  lance 
With  the  gross  aims  and  body-bending  toil 
Of  a  poor  brotherhood  who  walk  the  earth 
Pitied,  and  where  they  are  not  known,  despised. 
Yet,  by  the  good  knight's  leave,  the  two  estates 
Are  graced  with  some  resemblance.     Errant  those, 
Exiles  and  wanderers — and  the  like  are  these  ; 
Who,  with  their  burthen,  traverse  hill  and  dale, 
Carrying  relief  for  nature's  simple  wants. 
What  though  no  higher  recompense  they  seek 
Than  honest  maintenance,  by  irksome  toil 
Full  oft  procured,  yet  such  may  claim  respect, 
Among  the  intelligent,  for  what  this  course 
Enables  them  to  be  and  to  perform. 
Their  tardy  steps  give  leisure  to  observe, 
While  solitude  permits  the  mind  to  feel  ; 
Instructs  and  prompts  her  to  supply  defects 
By  the  division  of  her  inward  self, 
For  grateful  converse  •  and  to  these  poor  men 
(As  I  have  heard  you  boast  with  honest  pride) 
Nature  is  bountiful,  where'er  they  go  ; 
Kind  nature's  various  wealth  is  all  their  own. 
Versed  in  the  characters  of  men  ;  and  bound, 
By  tie  of  daily  interest,  to  maintain 
Conciliatory  manners  and  smooth  speech  ; 
Such  have  been,  and  still  are  in  their  degree, 
Examples  efficacious  to  refine 
Rude  intercourse  ;  apt  ngents  to  expel, 
By  importation  of  unlooked-for  arts, 


THE  EXCURSION.  473 

Barbarian  torpor,  and  blind  prejudice; 
Raising,  through  just  gradation,  savage  life 
To  rustic,  and  the  rustic  to  urbane. 
Within  their  moving  magazines  is  lodged 
Power  that  comes  forth  to  quicken  and  exalt 
Affections  seated  in  the  mother's  breast, 
And  in  the  lover's  fancy  ;  and  to  feed 
The  sober  sympathies  of  long-tried  friends. 
By  these  itinerants,  as  experienced  men, 
Counsel  is  given  ;  contention  they  appease 
With  gentle  language  ;  in  remotest  wilds, 
Tears  wipe  away,  and  pleasant  tidings  bring  : 
Could  the  proud  quest  of  chivalry  do  more?'' 

"  Happy,"  rejoined  the  Wanderer,  "  they  who  gain 
A  panegyric  from  your  generous  tongue  1 
But  if  to  these  wayfarers  once  pertained 
Aught  of  romantic  interest,  'tis  gone  ; 
Their  purer  service,  in  this  realm  at  least, 
Is  past  for  ever. — An  inventive  age 
Has  wrought,  if  not  with  speed  of  magic,  yet 
To  most  strange  issues.     I  have  lived  to  mark 
A  new  and  unforeseen  creation  rise 
From  out  the  labours  of  a  peaceful  land, 
Wielding  her  potent  enginery  to  frame 
And  to  produce,  with  appetite  as  keen 
As  that  of  war,  which  rests  not  night  or  day, 
Industrious  to  destroy  !     With  fruitless  pains 
Might  one  like  me  now  visit  many  a  tract 
Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod  and  trod  again, 
A  lone  pedestrian  with  a  scanty  freight, 
Wished  for,  or  welcome,  wheresoe'er  he  came, 
Among  the  tenantry  of  thorpe  and  vill  ; 
Or  straggling  burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud, 
And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 
Of  some  stern  castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 
Of  a  green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 
The  foot-path  faintly  marked,  the  horse-track  wild, 
And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 
(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 
Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place) 
Have  vanished, — swallowed  up  by  stately  roads 
Easy  and  bold,  that  penetrate  the  gloom 
Of  Britain's  farthest  glens.     The  earth  has  lent 
Her  waters,  air  her  breezes  ;  and  the  sail 
Of  traffic  glides  with  ceaseless  interchange, 
Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale, 
Or  on  the  naked  mountain's  lofty  side. 
Meanwhile,  at  social  industry's  command, 
How  quick,  how  vast  an  increase  !     From  the  germ 
Of  some  poor  hamlet,  rapidly  produced 
Here  a  huge  town,  continuous  and  compact, 
Hiding  the  face  of  earth  for  leagues — and  there, 
Where  not  a  habitation  stood  before, 
Abodes  of  men  irregularly  massed 
Like  trees  in  forests-  spread  through  spacious  tracts. 
O'er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  firer. 
Hangs  permanent,  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 


474  TEE  EXCURSION. 

Of  vapour  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 

And,  wheresoe'er  the  traveller  turns  his  steps, 

He  sees  the  barren  wilderness  erased, 

Or  disappearing  ;  triumph  that  proclaims 

How  much  the  mild  directress  of  the  plough 

Owes  to  alliance  with  these  new-born  arts  ! 

Hence  is  the  wide  sea  peopled, — hence  the  shores 

Of  Britain  are  resorted  to  by  ships 

Freighted  from  every  climate  of  the  world 

With  the  world's  choicest  produce.     Hence  that  sum 

Of  keels  that  rest  within  her  crowded  ports, 

Or  lie  at  anchor  in  her  sounds  and  bays  ; 

That  animating  spectacle  of  sails 

Which,  through  her  inland  regions,  to  and  fro 

Pass  with  the  respirations  of  the  tide, 

Perpetual,  multitudinous  !     Finally, 

Hence  a  dread  arm  of  floating  power,  a  voice 

Of  thunder  daunting  those  who  would  approach 

With  hostile  purposes  the  blessed  isle — 

Truth's  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 

Impregnable  of  liberty  and  peace  ! 

"And  yet,  O  happy  pastor  of  a  flock 
Faithfully  watched,  and,  by  that  loving  care 
And  Heaven's  good  providence,  preserved  from  taint ! 
With  you  I  grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 
Of  this  great  change  I  look  ;  and  there  behold, 
Such  outrage  done  to  nature  as  compels 
The  indignant  power  to  justify  herself ; 
Yea,  to  avenge  her  violated  rights, 
For  England's  bane. — When  soothing  darkness  spreads 
O'er  hill  and  vale,"  the  Wanderer  thus  expressed 
His  recollections,  "and  the  punctual  stars, 
While  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes, 
Advance,  and  in  the  firnmment  of  heaven 
Glitter — but  undisturbing,  undisturbed  ; 
As  if  their  silent  company  were  charged 
With  peaceful  admonitions  for  the  heart 
Of  all-beholding  man,  earth's  thoughtful  lord  ; 
Then,  in  full  many  a  region,  once  like  this 
The  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 
And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light, 
Prepared  for  never-resting  labour's  eyes, 
Breaks  from  a  many-windowed  fabric  huge  ; 
And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  bell  is  heard — 
Of  harsher  import  than  the  curfew-knoll 
That  spake  the  Norman  conqueror's  stern  behest— 
A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil  ! 
Disgorged  are  now  the  ministers  of  day  ; 
And,  as  they  issue  from  the  illumined  pile, 
A  fresh  band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door — 
And  in  the  courts— and  where  the  rumbling  stream. 
That  turns  the  multitude  of  dizzy  wheels, 
Glares,  like  a  troubled  spirit,  in  its  bed 
Among  the  rocks  below.     Men,  maidens,  youths, 
Mother  and  little  children,  boys  and  girls, 
Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 
Within  this  temple — where  is  offered  up 


THE  EXCURSION.  47* 

To  gain,  the  master  idol  of  the  realm. 
Perpetual  sacrifice.     Even  thus  of  old 
Our  ancestors,  within  the  still  domain 
Of  vast  cathedral  or  conventual  church, 
Their  vigils  kept ;  where  tapers  day  and  night 
On  the  dim  altar  burned  continually, 
In  token  that  the  house  was  evermore 
Watching  to  God.     Religious  men  were  they  ; 
Nor  would  their  reason,  tutored  to  aspire 
Above  this  transitory  world,  allow 
That  there  should  pass  a  moment  of  the  year, 
When  in  their  land  the  Almighty's  service  ceased. 

"Triumph  who  will  in  these  profaner  rites 
Which  we,  a  generation  self-extolled, 
As  zealously  perform  I  1  cannot  share 
His  proud  complacency  ;  yet  I  exult, 
Casting  reserve  away,  exult  to  see 
Am  intellectual  mastery  exercised 
O'er  the  blind  elements  ;  a  purpose  given, 
A  perseverance  fed  ;  almost  a  soul 
Imparted — to  brute  matter.     I  rejoice, 
Measuring  the  force  of  those  gigantic  powers, 
That  by  the  thinking  mind  have  been  compelled 
To  serve  the  will  of  feeble-bodied  man. 
For  with  the  sense  of  admiration  blends 
The  animating  hope  that  time  may  come 
When  strengthened,  yet  not  dazzled,  by  the  might 
Of  this  dominion  over  nature  gained, 
Men  of  all  lands  shall  exercise  the  same 
In  due  proportion  to  their  country's  need  ; 
Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  glory  rests, 
All  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness, 
Upon  the  moral  law.     Egyptian  Thebes ; 
Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves  ; 
Palmyra,  central  in  the  desert,  fell ; 
And  the  arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 
Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanished  Syracuse, 
And  feelingly  the  sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself, 
Is  the  philosophy,  whose  sway  depends 
On  mere  material  instruments  : — how  weak 
Those  arts,  and  high  inventions,  if  unpropped 
By  virtue. — He  with  sighs  of  pensive  grief, 
Amid  his  calm  abstractions,  would  admit 
That  not  the  slender  privilege  is  theirs 
To  save  themselves  from  blank  forgetfulness  ! " 

When  from  the  Wanderer's  lips  these  words  had  fallen, 

I  said,  "  And,  did  in  truth  these  vaunted  arts 

Possess  such  privilege,  how  could  we  escape 

Regret  and  painful  sadness,  who  revere, 

And  would  preserve  as  things  above  all  price, 

The  old  domestic  morals  of  the  land. 

Her  simple  manners,  and  the  stable  worth 

That  dignified  and  cheered  a  low  estate  ? 

Oh  !  where  is  now  the  character  of  peace, 


476  THE  EXCURSION. 

Sobriety,  and  order,  and  chaste  love, 
And  honest  dealing,  and  untainted  speech, 
And  pure  good-will,  and  hospitable  cheer, 
That  made  the  very  thought  of  country-life 
A  thought  of  refuge,  for  a  mind  detained 
Reluctantly  amid  the  bustling  crowd? 
Where  now  the  beauty  of  the  Sabbath  kept 
With  conscientious  reverence,  as  a  day 
By  the  Almighty  law-giver  pronounced 
Holy  and  blest  ?  and  where  the  winning  grace 
Of  all  the  lighter  ornaments  attached 
To  time  and  season,  as  the  year  rolled  round  ?  " 

"  Fled  !"  was  the  Wanderer's  passionate  response, 
"  Fled  utterly!  or  only  to  be  traced 
In  a  few  fortunate  retreats  like  this  ; 
Which  I  behold  with  trembling,  when  I  think 
What  lamentable  change,  a  year — a  month — 
May  bring  ;  that  brook  converting  as  it  runs 
Into  an  instrument  of  deadly  bane 
For  those,  who,  yet  untempted  to  forsake 
The  simple  occupations  of  their  sires, 
Drink  the  pure  water  of  its  innocent  stream 
With  lip  almost  as  pure.  — Domestic  bliss, 
(Or  call  it  comfort,  by  a  humbler  name,) 
How  art  thou  blighted  for  the  poor  man's  heart  1 
Lo  !  in  such  neighbourhood,  from  morn  to  eve, 
The  habitations  empty  !  or  perchance 
The  mother  left  alone, — no  helping  hand 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  her  peevish  babe  ; 
No  daughters  round  her,  busy  at  the  wheel, 
Or  in  despatch  of  each  day's  little  growth 
Of  household  occupation  ;  no  nice  arts 
Of  needle-work  ;  no  bustle  at  the  fire, 
Where  once  the  dinner  was  prepared  with  pride ; 
Nothing  to  speed  the  day,  or  cheer  the  mind  , 
Nothing  to  praise,  to  teach,  or  to  command  ! 
The  father,  if  perchance  he  still  retain 
His  old  employments,  goes  to  field  or  wood, 
No  longer  led  or  followed  by  the  sons  ; 
Idlers  perchance  they  were, — but  in  his  sigh:  ; 
Breathing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth  ; 
Till  their  short  holiday  of  childhood  ceased, 
Ne'er  to  return  !  That  birthright  now  is  lost. 
Economists  will  tell  you  that  the  state 

Thrives  by  the  forfeiture unfeeling  thought, 

And  false  as  monstrous  !    Can  the  mother  thrive 

By  the  destruction  of  her  innocent  sons  ? 

In  whom  a  premature  necessity 

Blocks  out  the  forms  of  nature,  preconsumes 

The  reason,  famishes  the  heart,  shuts  up 

The  infant  being  in  itself,  and  makes 

Its  very  spring  a  season  of  decay ! 

The  lot  is  wretched,  the  condition  sad, 

Whether  a  pining  discontent  survive, 

And  thirst  for  change  ;  or  habit  hath  subdued 

The  soul  depressed,  dejected — even  to  love 

Of  her  dull  tasks,  and  close  captivity. 


TIIH  EXCURSION*  477 

Oh,  banish  far  such  wisdom  as  condemns 
A  native  Briton  to  these  inward  chains, 

Fixed  in  his  soul,  so  early  and  so  deep, 
Without  his  own  consent,  or  knowledge,  fixed  ! 
He  is  a  slave  to  whom  release  comes  not, 
And  cannot  come.     The  boy,  where'er  he  turns, 
Is  still  a  prisoner  ;  when  the  wind  is  up 
Among  the  clouds  and  in  the  ancient  woods  ; 
Or  when  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  east, 
Quiet  and  calm.     Behold  him— in  the  school 
Of  his  attainment  ?  no  ;  but  with  the  air 
Fanning  his  temples  under  heaven's  blue  arv-h. 
His  raiment,  whitened  o'er  with  cotton  flakes, 
Or  locks  of  wool,  announces  whence  he  comes. 
Creeping  his  gait  and  cowering— his  lip  pale— 
His  respiration  quick  and  audible  ; 
And  scarcely  could  you  fancy  that  a  gleam 
From  out  those  languid  eyes  could  break,  or  blush 
Mantle  upon  his  cheek.     Is  this  the  form, 
Is  that  the  countenance,  and  such  the  port, 
Of  no  mean  being  ?    One  who  should  be  clothed 
With  dignity  befitting  his  proud  hope  ; 
Who,  in  his  very  childhood,  should  appear 
Sublime— from  present  purity  and  joy  ! 
The  limbs  increase  ;  but  liberty  of  mind 
Is  gone  for  ever  ;  this  organic  frame 
So  joyful  in  her  motions,  is  become 
Dull,  to  the  joy  of  her  own  motions  dead  ; 
And  even  the  touch  so  exquisitely  poured 
Through  the  whole  body  with  a  languid  will 
Performs  her  functions  ;  rarely  competent 
To  impress  a  vivid  feeling  on  the  mind 
Of  what  there  is  delightful  in  the  breeze, 
The  gentle  visitations  of  the  sun, 
Or  lapse  of  liquid  element, — by  hand, 
Or  foot,  or  lip,  in  summer's  warmth — perceived. 
Can  hope  look  forward  to  a  manhood  raised 
On  such  foundations  ?"  „ 

"  Hope  is  none  for  him  ! 
The  pale  recluse  indignantly  exclaimed, 
"  And  tens  of  thousands  suffer  wrong  as  deep. 
Yet  be  it  asked,  in  justice  to  our  age, 
If  there  were  not,  before  those  arts  appeared, 
These  structures  rose,  commingling  old  and  young, 
And  unripe  sex  with  sex,  for  mutual  taint ; 
Then,  if  there  were  not,  in  our  far-famed  isle, 
Multitudes,  who  from  infancy  had  breathed 
Air  unimprisoned,  and  had  lived  at  large  ; 
Yet  walked  beneath  the  sun,  in  human  shape, 
As  abject,  as  degraded  ?    At  this  day 
Who  shall  enumerate  the  crazy  huts 
And  tottering  hovels,  whence  do  issue  forth 
A  ragged  offspring,  with  their  own  blanched  hair  v 

Crowned  like  the  image  of  fantastic  fear  ; 
Or  wearing,  we  might  say,  in  that  white  growth 
An  ill-adjusted  turban,  for  defence 
Or  fierceness,  wreathed  around  their  sun-burnt  brows, 
By  savage  nature's  unassisted  care. 


478  THE  EXCURSION: 

Naked  and  coloured  like  the  soil,  the  feet 

On  which  they  stand  ;   as  if  thereby  they  drew 

Some  nourishment,  as  trees  do  by  their  roots, 

From  earth,  the  common  mother  of  us  all. 

Figure  and  mien,  complexion  and  attire, 

Are  leagued  to  strike  dismay,  but  outstretched  hand 

And  whining  voice  denote  them  supplicants 

For  the  least  boon  that  pity  can  bestow. 

Such  on  the  breast  of  darksome  heaths  are  found  ; 

And  with  their  parents  dwell  upon  the  skirts 

Of  furze-clad  commons  ;  such  are  born  and  reared 

At  the  mine's  mouth,  under  impending  rocks  ; 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  some  natural  cave  ; 

Or  where  their  ancestors  erected  huts, 

For  the  convenience  of  unlawful  gain, 

In  forest  purlieus  ;  and  the  like  are  bred, 

All  England  through,  where  nooks  and  slips  of  ground, 

Purloined,  in  times  less  jealous  than  our  own, 

From  the  green  margin  of  the  public  way, 

A  residence  afford  them,  'mid  the  bloom 

And  gaiety  of  cultivated  fields. 

Such  (we  will  hope  the  lowest  in  the  scale) 

Do  I  remember  oft-times  to  have  seen 

'Mid  Buxton's  dreary  heights.     Upon  the  watch, 

Till  the  swift  vehicle  approach,  they  stand  ; 

Then,  following  closely  with  the  cloud  of  dust, 

An  uncouth  feat  exhibit,  and  are  gone 

Heels  over  head  like  tumblers  on  a  stage. 

Up  from  the  ground  they  snatch  the  copper  coin, 

And,  on  the  freight  of  merry  passengers 

Fixing  a  steady  eye,  maintain  their  speed  ; 

And  spin — and  pant — and  overhead  again, 

Wild  pursuivants  !  until  their  breath  is  lost, 

Or  bounty  tires — and  every  face,  that  smiled 

Encouragement,  hath  ceased  to  look  that  way. 

But,  like  the  vagrants  of  the  Gipsy  tribe, 

These,  bred  to  little  pleasure  in  themselves. 

Are  profitless  to  others.     Turn  we  then 

To  Britons  born  and  bred  within  the  pale 

Of  civil  policy,  and  early  trained 

To  earn,  by  wholesome  labour  in  the  field, 

The  bread  they  eat.     A  sample  should  I  give 

Of  what  this  stock  produces  to  enrich 

The  tender  age  of  life,  ye  would  exclaim, 

'  Is  this  the  whistling  plough-boy  whose  shrill  notes 

Impart  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air  ?' 

Forgive  me  if  I  venture  to  suspect 

That  many,  sweet  to  hear  of  in  soft  verse, 

Are  of  no  finer  frame  : — his  joints  are  stiff; 

Beneath  a  cumbrous  frock,  that  to  the  knees 

Invests  the  thriving  churl,  his  legs  appear, 

Fellows  to  those  that  lustily  upheld 

The  wooden  stools  for  everlasting  use, 

Whereon  our  fathers  sate.     And  mark  his  brow  ! 

Under  whose  shaggy  canopy  are  set 

Two  eyes,  not  dim,  but  of  a  healthy  stare  : 

Wide,  sluggish,  blank,  and  ignorant,  and  strange  ; 

Proclaiming  boldly  that  they  never  drew 


THE  EXCURSION.  479 

A  look  or  motion  of  intelligence 

From  infant  conning  of  the  (hrist-cross-row, 

Or  puzzling  through  a  primer,  line  by  line, 

Till  perfect  mastery  crown  the  pains  at  last. 

What  kindly  warmth  from  touch  of  fostering  hand, 

What  penetrating  power  of  sun  or  hi 

Shall  e'er  dissolve  the  crust  wherein  his  soul 

Sleeps,  like  a  caterpillar  sheathed  in  ice  ? 

This  torpor  is  no  pitiable  work 

Of  modern  ingenuity  ;  no  town 

Nor  crowded  city  may  be  taxed  with  aught 

Of  sottish  vice  or  desperate  breach  of  law, 

To  which  in  after  years  he  may  be  roused. 

This  boy  the  fields  produce  :  his  spade  and  hoe--  - 

The  carter's  whip  that  on  his  shoulder  rests 

In  air  high-towering  with  a  boorish  pomp, 

The  sceptre  of  his  sway  ;  his  country's  name, 

Her  equal  rights,  her  churches  and  her  schools- 

What  have  they  done  for  him  ?    And,  let  me  ask, 

For  tens  of  thousands  uninformed  as  he? 

In  brief,  what  liberty  of  mind  is  here  ?  " 

This  ardent  sally  pleased  the  mild  good  man, 
To  whom  the  appeal  couched  in  its  closing  words 
Was  pointedly  addressed  ;  and  to  the  thoughts 
That,  in  assent  or  opposition,  rose 
Within  his  mind,  he  seemed  prepared  to  give 
Prompt  utterance  ;  but,  rising  from  our  seat, 
The  hospitable  vicar  interposed 
With  invitation  urgently  renewed. 
We  followed,  taking  as  he  led,  a  path 
Along  a  hedge  of  hollies,  dark  and  tall, 
Whose  flexile  boughs,  descending  with  a  weight 
Of  leafy  spray,  concealed  the  stems  and  roots 
That  gave  them  nourishment.     When  frosty  winds 
Howl  from  the  north,  what  kindly  warmth  methought 
Is  here,  how  grateful  this  impervious  screen  ! 
Not  shaped  by  simple  wearing  of  the  foot 
On  rural  business  passing  to  and  fro 
Was  the  commodious  walk  ;  a  careful  hand 
Had  marked  the  line,  and  strewn  the  surface  o'er 
With  pure  cerulean  gravel,  from  the  heights 
Fetched  by  the  neighbouring  brook. — Across  the  vale 
The  stately  fence  accompanied  our  steps  ; 
And  thus  the  pathway,  by  perennial  green 
Guarded  and  graced,  seemed  fashioned  to  unite, 
As  by  a  beautiful  yet  solemn  chain, 
The  pastor's  mansion  with  the  house  of  prayer. 

Like  image  of  solemnity,  conjoined 
With  feminine  allurement  soft  and  fair, 
The  mansion's  self  displayed  ; — a  reverend  pile 
With  bold  projections  and  recesses  deep  ; 
Shadowy,  yet  gay  and  lightsome  as  it  stood 
Fronting  the  noontide  sun.     We  paused  to  admire 
The  pillared  porch,  elaborately  embossed  ; 
The  low  wide  windows  with  their  mulhons  old  ; 
The  corrnce  richly  fretted,  of  grey  stone  ; 


tSO  TffE  EXCURSION. 

And  that  smooth  slope  from  which  the  dwelling  rose, 

By  beds  and  banks  Arcadian  of  gay  flowers 

And  flowering  shrubs,  protected  and  adorned  ; 

Profusion  bright !  and  every  flower  assuming 

A  more  than  natural  vividness  of  hue, 

From  unaffected  contrast  with  the  gloom 

Of  sober  cypress,  and  the  darker  foil 

Of  yew,  in  which  survived  some  traces,  here 

Not  unbecoming,  of  grotesque  device 

And  uncouth  fancy.     From  behind  the  roof 

Rose  the  slim  ash  and  massy  sycamore, 

Blending  their  diverse  foliage  with  the  green 

Of  ivy,  flourishing  and  thick,  that  clasped 

The  huge  round  chimneys,  harbour  of  delight 

For  wren  and  redbreast, — where  they  sit  and  sing 

Their  slender  ditties  when  the  trees  are  bare. 

Nor  must  I  leave  untouched  (the  picture  else 

Were  incomplete)  a  relique  of  old  times 

Happily  spared,  a  little  Gothic  niche 

Of  nicest  workmanship  ;  that  once  had  held 

The  sculptured  image  of  some  patron  saint, 

Or  of  the  blessed  Virgin  looking  down 

On  all  who  entered  those  religious  doors. 

But  lo !  where  from  the  rocky  garden  mount 
Crowned  by  its  antique  summer-house,  descends, 
Light  as  the  silver  fawn,  a  radiant  girl : 
For  she  hath  recognized  her  honoured  friend, 
The  Wanderer  ever  welcome  !     A  prompt  kiss 
The  gladsome  child  bestows  at  his  request  ;  - 
And,  up  the  flowery  lawn  as  we  advance, 
Hangs  on  the  old  man  with  a  happy  look, 
And  with  a  pretty  restless  hand  of  love. 
We  enter — by  the  lady  of  the  place 
Cordially  greeted.     Graceful  was  her  port : 
A  lofty  stature  undepressed  by  time, 
Whose  visitation  had  not  wholly  spared 
The  finer  lineaments  of  form  and  face  ; 
To  that  complexion  brought  which  prudence  trusts  in 
And  wisdom  loves. — But  when  a  stately  ship 
Sails  in  smooth  weather  by  the  placid  coast 
On  homeward  voyage,  what — if  wind  and  wave, 
And  hardship  undergone  in  various  climes, 
Have  caused  her  to  abate  the  virgin  pride, 
And  that  full  trim  of  inexperienced  hope 
With  which  she  left  her  haven — not  for  this, 
Should  the  sun  strike  her,  and  the  impartial  breeze 
Play  on  her  streamers,  fails  she  to  assume 
Brightness  and  touching  beauty  of  her  own, 
That  charm  all  eyes.     So  bright,  so  fair,  appeared 
This  goodly  matron,  shining  in  the  beams 
Of  unexpected  pleasure.     Soon  the  board 
Was  spread,  and  we  partook  a  plain  repast. 

Here,  resting  in  cool  shelter,  we  beguiled 
The  mid-day  hours  with  desultory  talk  ; 
From  trivial  themes  to  general  argument 
Passing,  as  accident  or  fancy  led, 
Or  courtesy  prescribed.     While  question  rose 


the  excursion: 


And  answer  flo>; 
Dm;  • 


g,  and  had  now 
.  ,^<  aisplay  his  skill, 
lie  steadfast  vantag    ground  of  truth. 
He  gazed  with  admiration  unsuppressed 
Upon  the  landscape  of  the  sun  bright  vale, 
Seen,  from  the  shady  room  in  which  we  sate, 
In  softened  perspective  ;  and  more  than  once 
Praised  the  consummate  harmony  serene 
Of  gravity  and  elegance — diffused 
Around  the  mansion  and  its  whole  domain  ; 
Not,  doubtless,  without  help  of  female  taste 
And  female  care. — "A  blessed  lot  is  yours  !" 
The  words  escaped  his  lip  with  a  tender  sigh 
Breathed  over  them  ;  but  suddenly  the  door 
Flew  open,  and  a  pair  of  lusty  boys 
Appeared — confusion  checking  their  delight. 
Not  brothers  they  in  feature  or  attire, 
But  fond  companions,  so  I  guessed,  in  field, 
And  by  the  river's  margin— whence  they  come, 
Anglers  elated  with  unusual  spoil. 
On*-bears  a  willow-panier  on  his  back, 
The  boy  of  plai'  er  garb,  whose  blush  survives 
More  deeply  tinged.     Twin  might  the  other  be 
To  that  fair  girl  who  from  the  garden  mount 
Bounded — triumphant  entry  this  for  him. 
Between  his  hands  he  holds  a  smooth  blue  stone 
On  whose  capacious  surface  see  outspread 
Large  store  of  gleaming  crimson-spotted  trouts  ; 
Ranged  side  by  side,  and  lessening  by  degrees 
Up  to  the  dwarf  that  tops  the  pinnacle. 
Upon  the  board  he  lays  the  sky-blue  stone 
With  its  rich  freight ; — their  number  he  proclaims  : 
Tells  from  what  pool  the  noblest  had  been  dragged  J 
And  where  the  very  monarch  of  the  brook, 
After  long  struggle,  had  escaped  at  last — 
Stealing  alternately  at  them  and  us 
(As  doth  his  comrade  too)  a  look  of  pride. 
And  verily  the  silent  creatures  made 
A  splendid  sight,  together  thus  exposed  ; 
Dead — but  not  sullied  or  deformed  by  death, 
That  seemed  to  pity  what  he  could  not  spare. 

But  oh,  the  animation  in  the  mien 
Of  those  two  boys  !     Yea,  in  the  very  words 
With  which  the  young  narrator  was  inspired, 
When,  as  our  questions  led,  he  told  at  large 
Of  that  day's  prowess  !     Him  might  I  compare. 
His  look,  tones,  gestures,  eager  eloquence, 
To  a  bold  brook  that  splits  for  better  speed, 
And,  at  the  self-same  moment,  works  its  way 
Through  many  channels,  ever  and  anon 
I'ar'ed  and  reunited :  his  compeer 


482  THE  EXCURSION. 

To  the  still  lake,  whose  stillness  is  to  sight 

As  heautiful,  as  grateful  to  the  mind. 

But  to  wiiat-P.bject  SDau  tne  lovely  girl 

Be  likened?    She  vflxfie  countenance  and  air 

Unite  the  graceful  qualities  of  hd*&,         ...      --  -..  <u 

Even  as  si  ,e  shares  the  pride  and  joy  of  both. 

My  gray-haired  friend  was  moved  ;  his  vivid  eye 
Glistened  with  tenderness  ;  his  mind,  I  knew, 
Was  full ;  and  had,  I  doubted  not,  returned, 
Upon  this  impulse,  to  the  theme — erewhile 
Abruptly  broken-off.     The  ruddy  boys 
Withdrew,  on  summons  to  their  well-earned  meal  ; 
And  he—  (to  whom  all  tongues  resigned  their  rights 
With  willingness,  to  whom  the  general  ear 
Listened  with  readier  patience  than  to  strain 
Of  music,  lute,  or  harp, — a  long  delight 
That  ceased  not  when  his  voice  had  ceased)  as  one 
Who  from  truth's  central  point  serenely  views 
The  compass  of  his  argument, — began 
Mildly,  and  with  a  clear  and  steady  tone. 


BOOK   IX. 

ARGUMENT. 

tVanderer  asserts  that  an  active  principle  pervades  the  universe — Its  noblest  seat  the  human  soul 
— How  lively  this  principle  is  in  childhood — Hence  the  delight  in  old  age  of  looking  back  upon 
childhood — The  dignity,  powers,  and  privileges  of  age  asserted — These  not  to  be  looked  for 
generally  but  under  a  just  government — Right  of  a  human  creature  to  be  exempt  from  being 
considered  as  a  mere  instrument — Vicious  inclinations  are  best  kept  under  by  giving  good  ones 
an  opportunity  to  show  themselves— The  condition  of  multitudes  deplored  from  want  of  due 
respect  to  this  truth  on  the  part  of  their  superiors  in  society — Former  conversation  recurred  to, 
and  the  Wanderer's  opinions  set  in  a  clearer  light — Genuine  principles  of  equality— Truth  placed 
within  reach  of  the  humblest.— Happy  state  of  the  two  boys  again  adverted  to— Earnest  wish 
expressed  for  a  system  of  national  education  established  universally  by  government — Glorious 
effects  of  this  foretold — Wanderer  breaks  off— Walk  to  the  lake — Embark — Description  of 
scenery  and  amusements— Grand  spectacle  from  the  side  of  a  hill — Address  of  priest  to  the 
Supreme  Being — in  the  course  of  which  he  contrasts  with  ancient  barbarism  the  present  ap- 
pearance of  the  scene  before  him — The  change  ascribed  to  Christianity — Apostrophe  to  his 
flock,  living  and  dead — Gratitude  to  the  Almighty — Return  over  the  lake — Parting  with  the 
Solitary — Under  what  circumstances. 

DISCOURSE  OF  THE  WANDERER,  AND  AN  EVENING  VISIT 
TO  THE  LAKE. 

"  To  every  form  of  being  is  assigned," 
Thus  calmly  spake  the  venerable  sage, 
' '  An  active  principle  :  howe'er  removed 
From  sense  and  observation,  it  subsists 
In  all  things,  in  all  natures,  in  the  stars 
Of  azure  heaven,  the  unenduring  clouds, 
In  flower  and  tree,  in  every  pebbly  stone 
That  paves  the  brooks,  the  stationary  rocks, 
The  moving  waters,  and  the  invisible  air. 
Whate'er  exists  hath  properties  that  spread 


THE  EXCURSION.  483 

Beyond  itself,  communicating  pood, 

A  simple  blessing,  or  with  evil  mixed  ; 

Spirit  that  knows  no  insulated  spot, 

No  chasm,  no  solitude  ;  from  link  to  link 

It  circulates,  the  soul  of  all  the  worlds. 

This  is  the  freedom  of  the  universe  ; 

Unfolded  still  the  more,  more  visible, 

The  more  we  know  ;  and  yet  is  revercnct  d  least, 

And  least  respected,  in  the  human  mind, 

Its  most  apparent  home.     The  food  of  hope 

Is  meditated  action  ;  robbed  of  this 

Her  sole  support,  she  languishes  and  dies. 

We  perish  also  ;  for  we  live  by  hope 

And  by  desire  ;  we  see  by  the  glad  light, 

And  breathe  the  sweet  air  of  futurity, 

And  so  we  live,  or  else  we  have  no  life. 

To-morrow — nay,  perchance  this  very  hour, 

(For  every  moment  hath  its  own  to-morrow  !) 

Those  blooming  boys,  whose  hearts  are  almost  sick 

With  present  triumph,  will  be  sure  to  find 

A  field  before  them  freshened  with  the  dew 

Of  other  expectations  ; — in  which  course 

Their  happy  year  spins  round.     The  youth  obeys 

A  like  glad  impulse  ;  and  so  moves  the  man 

'Mid  all  his  apprehensions,  cares,  and  fears, — 

Or  so  he  ought  to  move.     Ah,  why  in  age 

Do  we  revert  so  fondly  to  the  walks 

Of  childhood — but  that  there  the  soul  discerns 

The  dear  memorial  footsteps  unimpaired 

Of  her  own  native  vigour — thence  can  hear 

Reverberations  ;  and  a  choral  song, 

Commingling  with  the  incense  that  ascends 

Undaunted,  toward  the  imperishable  heavens, 

From  her  own  lonely  altar? — Do  not  think 

That  good  and  wise  will  ever  be  allowed, 

Though  strength  decay,  to  breathe  in  such  estate 

As  shall  divide  them  wholly  from  the  stir 

Of  hopeful  nature.     Rightly  is  it  said 

That  man  descends  into  the  Vale  of  years  ; 

Yet  have  I  thought  that  we  might  also  speak, 

And  not  presumptuously,  1  trust,  of  age, 

As  of  a  final  Eminence,  though  bare 

In  aspect  and  forbidding,  yet  a  point 

On  which  'tis  not  impossible  to  sit 

In  awful  sovereignty — a  place  of  power — 

A  throne,  that  may  be  likened  unto  his, 

Who,  in  some  placid  day  of  summer,  looks 

Down  from  a  mountain-top, — say  one  of  those 

High  peaks  that  bound  the  vale  where  now  we  are. 

Faint,  and  diminished  to  the  gazing  eye, 

Forest  and  field,  and  hill  and  dale  appear, 

With  all  the  shapes  upon  their  surface  spread  : 

But,  while  the  gross  and  visible  frame  of  things 

Relinquishes  its  hold  upon  the  sense, 

Yea,  almost  on  the  mind  herself,  and  seem* 

All  unsubstantialized, — how  loud  the  voice 

Of  Waters,  with  invigorated  peal 

From  the  full  river  in  the  vale  below, 


4*4  THE  EXCURSION. 

Ascending  ! — For  on  that  superior  height 

Who  sits,  is  disencumbered  from  the  press 

Of  near  obstructions,  and  is  privileged 

To  breathe  in  solitude  above  the  host 

Of  eve  '-humming  insects,  'mid  thin  air 

That  suits  not  them.     The  murmur  of  the  leaves 

Many  and  idle,  visits  not  his  ear; 

This  he  is  freed  from,  and  from  thousand  notes 

Not  less  unceasing,  not  less  vain  than  these, — 

By  which  the  finer  passages  of  sense 

Are  occupied  ;  and  the  soul,  that  would  incline 

To  listen,  is  prevented  or  deterred. 

"  And  may  it  not  be  hoped,  that,  placed  by  age 
In  like  removal,  tranquil  though  severe, 
We  are  not  so  removed  for  utter  loss  ; 
But  for  some  favour,  suited  to  our  need  ? 
What  more  than  that  the  severing  should  confer 
Fresh  power  to  commune  with  the  invisible  world, 
And  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  tendency 
Uttering,  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 
A  clear  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 
To  the  vast  multitude  ;  whose  doom  it  is 
To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight, 
Or  fret  and  labour  on  the  plain  below. 

"  But,  if  to  such  sublime  ascent  the  hopes 
Of  man  may  rise,  as  to  a  welcome  close 
And  termination  of  his  mortal  course, 
Them  only  can  such  hope  inspire  whose  minds 
Have  not  been  starved  by  absolute  neglect ; 
Nor  bodies  crushed  by  unremitting  toil ; 
To  whom  kind  nature,  therefore,  may  afford 
Proof  of  the  sacred  love  she  bears  for  all ; 
Whose  birth-right  reason,  therefore  may  insure. 
For  me,  consulting  what  I  feel  within 
In  times  when  most  existence  with  herself 
Is  satisfied,  I  cannot  but  believe, 
That,  far  as  kindly  nature  hath  free  scope, 
And  reason's  sway  predominates,  even  so  far, 
Country,  society,  and  time  itself, 
That  saps  the  individual's  bodily  frame, 
And  lays  the  generations  low  in  dust, 
Do,  by  the  Almighty  Ruler's  grace,  partake 
Of  one  maternal  spirit,  bringing  forth 
And  cherishing  with  ever-constant  love, 
That  tires  not,  nor  betrays.     Our  life  is  turned 
Out  of  her  course,  wherever  man  is  made 
An  offering,  or  a  sacrifice,  a  tool 
Or  implement,  a  passive  thing  employed 
As  a  brute  mean,  without  acknowledgment 
Of  common  right  or  interest  in  the  end  ; 
Used  or  abused,  as  selfishness  may  prompt. 
Say,  what  can  follow  for  a  rational  soul 
Perverted  thus,  but  weakness  in  all  good, 
And  strength  in  evil?     Hence  an  after-call 
For  chastisement,  and  custody,  and  bonds, 
And  oft-times  death,  avenger  of  the  past, 


Till'  EXCURSION.  485 

And  the  sole  guardian  in  whose  hands  we  dare 

Intrust  the  future. — Not  for  these  sad  issues 

Was  man  created  ;  but  to  obey  the  law 

<  M  life,  and  hope,  and  action.     And  ' t is  known 

That  when  we  stand  upon  our  native  soil, 

Unelbowed  by  such  objects  as  oppress 

Our  active  powers,  those  powers  themselves  become 

Strong  to  subvert  our  noxious  qualities  : 

They  sweep  distemper  from  the  busy  day, 

And  make  the  vessel  of  the  big  round  year 

Run  o'er  with  gladness  ;  whence  the  being  moves 

In  beatttv  through  the  world  ;  and  all  who  see 

Bless  him,  rejoicing  in  his  neighbourhood." 

"Then,"  said  the  Solitary,   "by  what  force 
Of  language  shall  a  feeling  heart  express 
Her  sorrow  for  that  multitude  in  whom 
We  look  for  health  from  seeds  that  have  been  sown 
In  sickness,  and  for  increase  in  a  power 
That  works  but  by  extinction  ?     On  themselves 
They  cannot  lean,  nor  turn  to  their  own  hearts 
To  know  what  they  must  do  ;  their  wisdom  is 
To  look  into  the  eyes  of  others,  thence 
To  be  instructed  what  they  must  avoid  : 
Or  rather  let  us  say,  how  least  observed, 
How  with  most  quiet  and  most  silent  death, 
With  the  least  taint  and  injury  to  the  air 
The  oppressor  breathes,  their  human  form  divine, 
And  their  immortal  soul,  may  waste  away." 

The  sage  rejoined,  "  I  thank  you — you  have  spared 
My  voice  the  utterance  of  a  keen  regret, 
A  wide  compassion  which  with  you  I  share. 
When,  heretofore,  I  placed  before  your  sight 
A  little-one,  subjected  to  the  arts 
Of  modern  ingenuity,  and  made 
The  senseless  member  of  a  vast  machine, 
Serving  as  doth  a  spindle  or  a  wheel ; 
Think  not,  that,  pitying  him,  I  could  forget 
The  rustic  boy,  who  walks  the  fields,  untaught  ; 
The  slave  of  ignorance,  and  oft  of  want, 
And  miserable  hunger.     Much,  too  much 
Of  this  unhappy  lot,  in  early  youth 
We  both  have  witnessed,  lot  which  I  myself 
Shared,  though  in  mild  and  merciful  degree  : 
Yet  was  the  mind  to  hindrances  exposed, 
Through  which  I  struggled,  not  without  distress 
And  sometimes  injury,  like  a  lamb  enthralled 
'Mid  thorns  and  brambles  ;  or  a  bird  that  breaks 
Through  a  strong  net,  and  mounts  upon  the  wind, 
Though  with  her  plumes  impaired.     If  they,  whose  souls 
Should  open  while  they  range  the  richer  fields 
Of  merry  England,  are  obstructed  less 
By  indigence,  their  ignorance  is  not  less, 
Nor  less  to  be  deplored.     For  who  can  doubt 
That  tens  of  thousands  at  this  day  exist 
Such  as  the  boy  you  painted,  lineal  heirs 
Of  those  who  once  were  vassals  of  her  soil, 


486  THE  EXCURSION. 

Following  its  fortunes  like  the  beasts  or  trees 

Which  it  sustained.     But  no  one  takes  delight 

In  this  oppression  ;  none  are  proud  of  it ; 

It  bears  no  sounding  name,  nor  ever  bore  ; 

A  standing  grievance,  an  indigenous  vice 

Of  every  country  under  heaven.     My  thoughts 

Were  turned  to  evils  that  are  new  and  chosen. 

A  bondage  lurking  under  shape  of  good, — 

Arts,  in  themselves  beneficent  and  kind, 

But  all  too  fondly  followed  and  too  far ; 

To  victims,  which  the  merciful  can  see 

Nor  think  that  they  are  victims  ;  turned  to  wrongs 

By  women  who  have  children  of  their  own, 

Beheld  without  compassion,  yea  with  praise ! 

I  spake  of  mischief  by  the  wise  diffused 

With  gladness,  thinking  that  the  more  it  spreads 

The  healthier,  the  securer,  we  become  ; 

Delusion  which  a  moment  may  destroy  ! 

Lastly,  I  mourned  for  those  whom  I  had  seen 

Corrupted  and  cast  down,  on  favoured  ground, 

Where  circumstances  and  nature  had  combined 

To  shelter  innocence,  and  cherish  love  ; 

Who,  but  for  this  intrusion,  would  have  lived, 

Possessed  of  health,  and  strength,  and  peace  of  mind  ; 

Thus  would  have  lived,  or  never  have  been  born. 

"Alas  !  what  differs  more  than  man  from  man  ! 
And  whence  that  difference  ?  whence  but  from  himself? 
For  see  the  universal  race  endowed 
With  the  same  upright  form  ! — The  sun  is  fixed, 
And  the  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven, 
Fixed  within  reach  of  every  human  eye  ; 
The  sleepless  ocean  murmurs  for  all  ears ; 
The  vernal  field  infuses  fresh  delight 
Into  all  hearts.     Throughout  the  world  of  sense, 
Even  as  an  object  is  sublime  or  fair, 
That  object  is  laid  open  to  the  view 
Without  reserve  or  veil  ;  and  as  a  power 
Is  salutary,  or  an  influence  sweet, 
Are  each  and  all  enabled  to  perceive 
That  power,  that  influence,  by  impartial  law. 
Gifts  nobler  are  vouchsafed  alike  to  all ; 
Reason,— and,  with  that  reason,  smiles  and  tears  ; 
Imagination,  freedom  in  the  will, 
Conscience  to  guide  and  check,  and  death  to  be 
Foretasted,  immortality  presumed. 

Strange,  then,  nor  less  than  monstrous  might  be  deemed 
The  failure,  if  the  Almighty,  to  this  point 
Liberal  and  undistinguishing,  should  hide 
The  excellence  of  moral  qualities 
From  common  understanding  ;  leaving  truth 
And  virtue,  difficult,  abstruse,  and  dark  ; 
Hard  to  be  won,  and  only  by  a  few  ; 
Strange,  should  he  deal  herein  with  nice  respects, 
And  frustrate  all  the  rest !     Believe  it  not : 
The  primal  duties  shine  aloft— like  stars  ; 
The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  man— like  flowers. 


TILE  EXCURSION.  487 

The  generous  inclination,  the  just  rule, 

Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts — 

No  mystery  is  here  ;  no  special  boon 

For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  graced 

And  not  for  meek  of  heart.     The  smoke  ascends 

To  heaven  as  lightly  from  the  cottage  hearth 

As  from  the  haughty  palace.     He,  whose  soul 

Ponders  this  true  equality,  may  walk 

The  fields  of  earth  with  gratitude  and  hope  ; 

Yet,  in  that  meditation,  will  he  find 

Motive  to  sadder  grief,  as  we  have  found, — 

Lamenting  ancient  virtues  overthrown, 

And  for  the  injustice  grieving,  that  hath  made 

So  wide  a  difference  betwixt  man  and  man. 

"  But  let  us  rather  turn  our  gladdened  thoughts 
Upon  the  brighter  scene.     How  blest  that  pair 
Of  blooming  boys  (whom  we  beheld  even  now) 
Blest  in  their  several  and  their  common  lot  ! 
A  few  short  hours  of  each  returning  day 
The  thriving  prisoners  of  their  village  school  : 
And  thence  let  loose,  to  seek  their  pleasant  home3 
Or  range  the  grassy  lawn  in  vacancy, 
To  breathe  and  to  be  happy,  run  and  shout  ; 
Idle, — but  no  delay,  no  harm,  no  loss  ; 
For  every  genial  power  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Through  all  the  seasons  of  the  changeful  year, 
Obsequiously  doth  take  upon  herself 
To  labour  for  them  ;  bringing  each  in  turn 
The  tribute  of  enjoyment,  knowledge,  health, 
Beauty,  or  strength  !     Such  privilege  is  theirs, 
Granted  alike  in  the  outset  of  their  course 
To  both  ;  and,  if  that  partnership  must  cease, 
I  grieve  not,"  to  the  pastor  here  he  turned, 
"  Much  as  I  glory  in  that  child  of  yours, 
Repine  not,  for  his  cottage-comrade,  whom 
Belike  no  higher  destiny  awaits 
Than  the  old  hereditary  wish  fulfilled, 
The  wish  for  liberty  to  live — content 
With  what  Heaven  grants,  and  die — in  peace  of  mind, 
Within  the  bosom  of  his  native  vale. 
At  least,  whatever  fate  the  noon  of  life 
Reserves  for  either,  this  is  sure,  that  both 
Have  been  permitted  to  enjoy  the  dawn  ; 
Whether  regarded  as  a  jocund  time, 
Th»t  in  itself  may  terminate,  or  lead 
In.  course  of  nature  to  a  sober  eve. 
Both  have  been  fairly  dealt  with  ;  looking  back 
They  will  allow  that  justice  has  in  them 
Been  shown— alike  to  body  and  to  mind." 

He  paused,  as  if  revolving  in  his  soul 
Some  weighty  matter,  then,  with  fervent  voice 
And  an  impassioned  majesty,  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  best  protection,  this  imperial  realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance  shall  admit 


488  THE  EXCUBSION. 

An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 

Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey  : 

Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure 

For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains 

The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 

The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth, 

Both  understood  and  practised, — so  that  none 

However  destitute,  be  left  to  droop 

By  timely  culture  unsustained  ;  or  run 

Into  a  wild  disorder  ;  or  be  forced 

To  drudge  through  weary  life  without  the  aid 

Of  intellectuaflmplements  and  tools  ; 

A  savage  horde  among  the  civilised, 

A  servile  band  among  the  lordly  free  ! 

This  sacred  right,  the  lisping  babe  proclaims 

To  be  inherent  in  him,  by  Heaven's  will, 

for  the  protection  of  his  innocence  ; 

And  the  rude  boy, — who,  having  overpast 

The  sinless  age,  by  conscience  is  enrolled, 

Yet  mutinously  knits  his  angry  brow, 

And  lifts  his  wilful  hand  on  mischief  bent, 

Or  turns  the  godlike  faculty  of  speech 

To  impious  use — by  process  indirect 

Declares  his  due,  while  he  makes  known  his  need. 

This  sacred  right  is  fruitlessly  announced, 

This  universal  plea  in  vain  addressed, 

To  eyes  and  ears  of  parents  who  themselves 

Did,  in  the  time  of  their  necessity, 

Urge  it  in  vain  ;  and  therefore,  like  a  prayer 

That  from  the  humblest  roof  ascends  to  Heaven, 

It  mounts  to  reach  the  state's  parental  ear  ; 

Who,  if  indeed  she  own  a  mother's  heart, 

And  be  not  most  unfeelingly  devoid 

Of  gratitude  to  Providence,  will  grant 

The  unquestionable  good  ;  which,  England,  safe 

From  interference  of  external  force, 

May  grant  at  leisure  ;  without  risk  incurred 

That  what  in  wisdom  for  herself  she  doth, 

Others  shall  e'er  be  able  to  undo. 

"  Look  !  and  behold,  from  Calpe's  sunburnt  cliffs 
To  the  flat  margin  of  the  Baltic  sea, 
Long-reverenced  titles  cast  away  as  weeds  ; 
Laws  overturned  ; — and  territory  split, 
Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind, 
And  forced  to  join  in  less  obnoxious  shapes, 
Which,  ere  they  gain  consistency,  by  a  gust 
Of  the  same  breath  are  shattered  and  destroyed. 
Meantime  the  sovereignty  of  these  fair  isles 
Remains  entire  and  indivisible  ; 
And,  if  that  ignorance  were  removed,  which  breeds 
Within  the  compass  of  their  several  shores 
Dark  discontent,  or  loud  commotion,  each 
Might  still  preserve  the  beautiful  repose 
Of  heavenly  bodies  shining  in  their  spheres. 
The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 
Amongst  us, — hence  the  more  do  we  require 
The  discipline  of  virtue  ;  order  else 


'i'liii'  MiAdt/J&tilOlV.  4,% 

Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peaci 

Thus,  duties  rising  out  of  good  possessed, 

And  prudent  caution  needful  to  avert 

Impending  evil,  equally  require 

That  the  whole  people  should  be  taught  and  trained. 

So  shall  licentiousness  and  black  resolve 

Be  rooted  out,  and  virtuous  habits  take 

Their  place  ;  and  genuine  piety  descend, 

Like  an  inheritance,  from  age  to  age. 

"  With  such  foundations  laid,  avaunt  the  feat 
Of  numbers  crowded  on  their  native  soil, 
To  the  prevention  of  all  healthful  growth 
Through  mutual  injury  !     Rather  in  the  law 
Of  increase  and  the  mandate  from  above 
Rejoice  ! — and  ye  have  special  cause  for  joy. 
For,  as  the  element  of  air  affords 
An  easy  passage  to  the  industrious  bees 
Fraught  with  their  burthens  ;  and  a  way  as  smooth 
For  those  ordained  to  take  their  sounding  flight 
From  the  thronged  hive,  and  settle  where  they  list 
In  fresh  abodes,  their  labour  to  renew  ; 
So  the  wide  waters,  open  to  the  power, 
The  will,  the  instincts,  and  appointed  needs 
Of  Britain,  do  invite  her  to  cast  off 
Her  swarms,  and  in  succession  send  them  forth  ; 
Bound  to  establish  new  communities 
On  every  shore  whose  aspect  favours  hope 
Or  bold  adventure  ;  promising  to  skill 
And  perseverance  their  deserved  reward. 
Yes,"  he  continued,  kindling  as  he  spake, 
"Change  wide,  and  deep,  and  silently  performed, 
This  land  shall  witness  ;  and  as  days  roll  on, 
Earth's  universal  frame  shall  feel  the  effect 
Even  till  the  smallest  habitable  rock, 
Beaten  by  lonely  billows,  hear  the  songs 
Of  humanized  society  ;  and  bloom 
With  civil  arts,  that  send  their  fragrance  forth, 
A  grateful  tribute  to  all-ruling  Heaven. 
From  culture,  unexclusively  bestowed 
On  Albion's  noble  race  in  freedom  born, 
Expect  these  mighty  issues  ;  from  the  pains 
And  faithful  care  of  unambitious  schools 
Instructing  simple  childhood's  ready  ear  : 
Thence  look  for  these  magnificent  results  ! 
Vast  the  circumference  of  hope — and  ye 
Are  at  its  centre,  British  lawgivers  ; 
Ah  !  sleep  not  there  in  shame  !     Shall  wisdom's  voice 
From  out  the  bosom  of  these  troubled  times 
Repeat  the  dictates  of  her  calmer  mind, 
And  shall  the  venerable  halls  ye  fill 
Refuse  to  echo  the  sublime  decree  ? 
Trust  not  to  partial  care  a  general  good  ; 
Transfer  not  to  futurity  a  work 
Of  urgent  need. — Your  country  must  complete 
Her  glorious  destiny. — Begin  even  now, 
Now,  when  oppression,  like  the  Egyptian  plague 
Of  darkness,  stretched  o'er  guilty  Europe,  makes 


490  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  biightness  more  conspicuous,  that  invests 
The  happy  island  where  ye  think  and  act  : 
Now,  when  destruction  is  a  prime  pursuit, 
Show  to  the  wretched  nations  for  what  end 
The  powers  of  civil  polity  were  given  !" 

Abruptly  here,  but  with  a  graceful  air, 
The  sage  broke  off.     No  sooner  had  he  ceased 
Than,  looking  forth,  the  gentle  lady  said, 
"  Behold,  the  shades  of  afternoon  have  fallen 
Upon  this  flowerv  slope  ;  and  see — beyond  — 
The  lake,  though  bright,  is  of  a  placid  blue  ; 
As  if  preparing  for  the  peace  of  evening. 
How  temptingly  the  landscape  shines  ! — The  air 
Breathes  invitation  ;  easy  is  the  walk 
To  the  lake's  margin,  where  a  boat  lies  moored 
Beneath  her  sheltering  tree."— Upon  this  hint 
We  rose  together  :  all  were  pleased — but  most 
The  beauteous  girl,  whose  cheek  was  flushed  with  ioy. 
Light  as  a  sunbeam  glides  along  the  hills 
She  vanished— eager  to  impart  the  scheme 
To  her  loved  brother  and  his  shy  compeer. 
Now  was  there  bustle  in  the  vicar's  house 
And  earnest  preparation. — Forth  we  went, 
And  down  the  vale  along  the  streamlet's  edge 
Pursued  our  way,  a  broken  company, 
Mute  or  conversing,  single  or  in  pairs. 
Thus  having  reached  a  bridge,  that  overarched 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalmed 
In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A  two-fold  image";  on  a  grassy  bank 
A  snow-white  ram,  and  in  the  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  !     Most  beautiful, 
On  the  green  turf,   with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 
The  breathing  creature  stood  ;  as  beautiful, 
Beneath  him,  showed  his  shadowy  counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky, 
And  each  seemed  centre  of  his  own  fair  world ; 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other, 
Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres, 
Blended  in  perfect  stillness,  to  our  sight  ! 

"  Ah  !  what  a  pity  were  it  to  disperse, 
Or  to  disturb  so  fair  a  spectacle, 
And  yet  a  breath  can  do  it !" 

These  few  words 
The  lady  whispered,  while  we  stood  and  gazed, 
Gathered  together,  all,  in  still  delight, 
Not  without  awe.     Thence  passing  on,  she  said, 
In  like  low  voice  to  my  particular  ear, 
"  I  love  to  hear  that  eloquent  old  man 
Pour  forth  his  meditations,  and  descant 
On  human  life  from  infancy  to  age. 
How  pure  his  spirit  !  in  what  vivid  hues 
His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  tilings, 
Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  attitude  ! 
While  he  is  speaking,  I  have  power  to  see 


rim  excursion.  491 

Even  as  lie  sees  ;  but  when  his  voice  hath  ceased. 

Then,  with  a  sigh,  I  sometimes  feel,  as  now, 

Th.it  combinations  so  serene  and  bright, 

Like  those  reflected  in  yon  quiet  pool, 

Cannot  be  lasting  in  a  world  like  ours, 

To  great  and  small  disturbances  exposed." 

More  had  she  said — but  sportive  shouts  were  heard  ; 

Sent  from  the  jocund  hearts  of  those  two  boys, 

Who,  bearing  each  a  basket  on  his  arm, 

Down  the  green  field  came  tripping  after  us. 

When  we  had  cautiously  embarked,  the  pair 

Now  for  a  prouder  service  were  addrest ; 

But  an  inexorable  law  forbade, 

And  each  resigned  the  oar  which  he  had  seized. 

Whereat,  with  willing  hand  I  undertook 

The  needful  labour  ;  grateful  task  ! — to  me 

Pregnant  with  recollections  of  the  time 

When,  on  thy  bosom,  spacious  Windermere  ! 

A  youth,  I  practised  this  delightful  art ; 

Tossed  on  the  waves  alone,  or  'mid  a  crew 

Of  joyous  comrades. — Now,  the  reedy  marge 

Cleared,  with  a  strenuous  arm  I  dipped  the  oar, 

Free  from  obstruction  ;  and  the  boat  advanced 

Through  crystal  water,  smoothly  as  a  hawk. 

That,  disentangled  from  the  shady  boughs 

Of  some  thick  wood,  her  place  of  covert,  cleaves 

With  correspondent  wings  the  abyss  of  air. 

"  Observe,"  the  vicar  said,  "  yon  rocky  isle 

With  birch-trees  fringed  ;  my  hand  shall  guide  the  helm, 

While  thitherward  we  bend  our  course  ;  or  while 

We  seek  that  other,  on  the  western  shore, — 

Where  the  bare  columns  of  those  lofty  firs, 

Supporting  gracefully  a  massy  dome 

Of  sombre  foliage,  seem  to  imitate 

A  Grecian  temple  rising  from  the  deep." 


"Turn  where  we  may,"  said  I,  "we  cannot  err 
In  this  delicious  region. "  -  Cultured  slopes, 
Wild  tracts  of  forest-ground,  and  scattered  groves, 
And  mountains  bare — or  clothed  with  ancient  woods, 
Surrounded  us  ;  and,  as  we  held  our  way 
Along  the  level  of  the  glassy  flood, 
They  ceased  not  to  surround  us  ;  change  of  place, 
From  kindred  features  diversely  combined, 
Producing  change  of  beauty  ever  new. 
Ah  !  that  such  beauty,  varying  in  the  light 
Of  living  nature,  cannot  be  portrayed 
By  words,  nor  by  the  pencil's  silent  skill  ; 
But  is  the  property  of  him  alone 
Who  hath  beheld  it,  noted  it  with  care, 
And  in  his  mind  recorded  it  with  love  ! 
Suffice  it,  therefore,  if  the  rural  muse 
Vouchsafe  sweet  influence,  while  her  poet  speaks 
Of  trivial  oocupations  well  devised, 
And  unsought  pleasures  springing  up  by  chance  ; 
As  if  some  friendly  genius  had  ordained 
That,  as  the  day  thus  far  had  been  enriched 


TEE  EXCURSION". 

By  acquisition  of  sincere  delight, 

The  same  should  be  continued  to  its  close. 

One  spirit  animating  old  and  young, 
A  gipsy  fire  we  kindled  on  the  shore 
Of  the  fair  isle  with  birch-trees  fringed — and  there, 
Merrily  seated  in  a  rir.jj,  partook 
The  beverage  drawn  from  China's  fragrant  herb. 
Launched  from  our  hands,  the  smooth  stone  skimmed  the  lake ; 
With  shouts  we  roused  the  echoes  ; — stiller  sounds 
The  lovely  girl  supplied — a  simple  song, 
Whose  low  tones  reached  not  to  the  distant  rocks 
To  be  repeated  thence,  but  gently  sank 
Into  our  hearts  ;  and  charmed  the  peaceful  Pood. 
Rapaciously  we  gathered  flowery  spoils 
From  land  and  water  ;  lilies  of  each  hue — 
Golden  and  white,  that  float  upon  the  waves 
And  court  the  wind  ;  and  leaves  of  that  shy  plant, 
(Her  flowers  were  shed)  the  lily  of  the  vale, 
That  loves  the  ground,  and  from  the  sun  withholds 
Her  pensive  beauty,  from  the  breeze  her  sweets. 

Such  product,  and  such  pastime  did  the  place 
And  season  yield  ;  but  as  we  re-embarked, 
leaving,  in  quest  of  other  scenes,  the  shore 
Of  that  wild  spot,  the  Solitary  said, 
In  alow  voice,  yet  careless  who  might  hear, 
' '  The  fire,  that  burned  so  brightly  to  our  wish, 
Where  is  it  now  ?    Deserted  on  the  beach 
It  seems  extinct  ;  nor  shall  the  fanning  breeze 
Revive  its  ashes.     What  care  we  for  this, 
Whose  ends  are  gained  ?     Behold  an  emblem  here 
Of  one  day's  pleasure,  and  all  mortal  joys  ! 
And  in  this  unpremeditated  slight 
Of  that  which  is  no  longer  needed,  see 
The  common  course  of  human  gratitude  ! " 

This  plaintive  note  disturbed  not  the  repose 
Of  the  still  evening.     Right  across  the  lake 
Our  pinnace  moves  :  then,  coasting  creek  and  bay, 
Glades  we  behold — and  into  thickets  peep — 
Where  couch  the  spotted  deer ;  or  raised  our  eyes 
To  shaggy  steeps  on  which  the  careless  goat 
Browsed  by  the  side  of  dashing  waterfalls. 
Thus  did  the  bark,  meandering  with  the  shore, 
Pursue  her  voyage,  till  a  natural  pier 
Of  jutting  rock  invited  us  to  land. 
Alert  to  follow  as  the  pastor  led, 
We  clomb  a  green  hill's  side  ;  and  as  we  clomb, 
The  valley,  opening  out  her  bosom,  gave 
Fair  prospect,  intercepted  less  and  less, 
Of  the  flat  meadows  and  indented  coast 
Of  the  smooth  lake — in  compass  seen  : — far  off, 
And  yet  conspicuous,  stood  the  old  church-tower, 
In  majesty  presiding  over  fields 
And  habitations,  seemingly  preserved 
From  the  intrusion  of  a  restless  world 
By  rock;  impassable  and  mountains  huge. 


TKE  EXCURSION:  49^ 

Soft  heath  this  elevated  spot  supplied, 
And  choice  of  moss-clad  stones,  whereon  wc  couched 
Or  sat  reclined — admiring  quietly  *■ 

The  general  aspect  of  the  scene  ;  but  each 
Not  seldom  over  anxious  to  make  known 
His  own  discoveries  ;  or  to  favourite  points 
Directing  notice  merely  from  a  wish 
To  impart  a  joy,  imperfect  while  unshared. 
That  rapturous  moment  ne'er  shall  I  forget 
When  these  particular  interests  were  effaced 
From  every  mind  !  already  had  the  sun, 
Sinking  with  less  than  ordinary  state, 
Attained  his  western  bound  ;  but  rays  of  lighi 
Now  suddenly  diverging  from  the  orb 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops  or  veiled 
By  the  dense  air — shot  upwards  to  the  crown 
Of  the  blue  firmament— aloft — and  wide  : 
And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds, : 
Lre  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 
Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 
Vivid  as  fire — clouds  separately  poised, 
Innumerable  multitude  of  forms 
Scattered  through  half  the  circle  of  the  sky  ; 
And  giving  back,  and  shedding  each  on  each, 
With  prodigal  communion,  the  bright  hues 
Which  from  the  unapparent  fount  of  glory 
They  had  imbibed,  and  ceased  not  to  receive. 
That  which  the  heavens  displayed,  the  liquid  deep 
Repeated  ;  but  with  unity  sublime  ! 
While  from  the  grassy  mountain's  open  side 
We  gazed,  in  silence  hushed,  with  eyes  intent 
On  the  refulgent  spectacle — diffused 
Through  earth,  sky,  water,  and  all  visible  space, 
The  priest  in  holy  transport  thus  exclaimed — 

"  Eternal  Spirit !  universal  God  ! 
Power  inaccessible  to  human  thought, 
Save  by  degrees  and  steps  which  thou  hast  deigned 
To  furnish  ;  for  this  effluence  of  thyself, 
To  the  infirmity  of  mortal  sense 
Vouchsafed,  this  local,  transitory  type 
Of  thy  paternal  splendours,  and  the  pomp 
Of  those  who  fill  thy  courts  in  highest  heaven, 
The  radiant  cherubim  ; — accept  the  thanks 
Which  we,  thy  humble  creatures,  here  convened, 
Presume  to  offer  ;  we,  who  from  the  breast 
Of  the  frail  earth,  permitted  to  behold 
The  faint  reflections  only  of  thy  face, 
Are  yet  exalted,  and  in  soul  adore  ! 
Such  as  they  are  who  in  thy  presence  stand 
Unsullied,  incorruptible,  and  drink 
Imperishable  majesty  streamed  forth 
From  thy  empyreal  throne,  the  elect  of  earth 
Shall  be— divested  at  the  appointed  hour 
Of  all  dishonour— cleansed  from  mortal  stain. 
Accomplish,  then,  their  number  ;  and  conclude 
Time's  weary  course  !     Or,  if,  by  thy  decree, 
The  consummation  that  will  come  by  stealth 


494  THE  EXCURSION. 

Be  yet  far  distant,  let  thy  Word  prevail, 
Oh  !  let  thy  Word  prevail,  to  take  away 
The  sting  of  human  nature.     Spread  the  law, 
As  it  is  written  in  thy  holy  Book, 
Throughout  all  lands  :  let  every  nation  hear 
The  high  behest,  and  every  heart  obey  ; 
Both  for  the  love  of  purity,  and  hope 
Which  it  affords,  to  such  as  do  thy  will 
And  persevere  in  good,  that  they  shall  rise, 
To  have  a  nearer  view  of  thee,  in  heaven. 
Father  of  Good  !  this  prayer  in  bounty  grant, 
In  mercy  grant  it  to  thy  wretched  sons. 
Then,  not  till  then,  shall  persecutions  cease, 
*  And  cruel  wars  expire.     The  way  is  marked, 

The  guide  appointed,  and  the  ransom  paid. 
Alas  !  the  nations,  who  of  yore  received 
These  tidings,  and  in  Christian  temples  meet 
The  sacred  truth  to  acknowledge,  linger  still  ; 
Preferring  bonds  and  darkness  to  a  state 
Of  holy  freedom,  by  redeeming  love 
Proffered  to  all,  while  yet  on  earth  detained. 

"  So  fare  the  many  ;  and  the  thoughtful  few, 
Who  in  the  anguish  of  their  souls  bewail 
This  dire  perverseness,  cannot  choose  but  ask, 
Shall  it  endure? — Shall  enmity  and  strife, 
Falsehood  and  guile,  be  left  to  sow  their  seed  ; 
And  the  kind  never  perish  ? — Is  the  hope 
Fallacious,  or  shall  righteousness  obtain 
A  peaceable  dominion,  wide  as  earth, 
And  ne'er  to  fail  ?    Shall  that  blest  day  arrive 
When  they,  whose  choice  or  lot  it  is  to  dwell 
In  crowded  cities,  without  fear  shall  live 
Studious  of  mutual  benefit  ;  and  he, 
Whom  morning  wakes,  among  sweet  dews  and  flowers 
Of  every  clime,  to  till  the  lonely  field, 
Be  happy  in  himself  ! — The  law  of  faith 
Working  through  love  such  conquest  shall  it  gain, 
Such  triumph  over  sin  and  guilt  achieve  ? 
Almighty  Lord,  thy  further  grace  impart ! 
And  with  that  help  the  winder  shall  be  seen 
Fulfilled,  the  hope  accomplished  ;  and  thy  praise 
Be  sung  with  transport  and  unceasing  joy." 

"Once,"  and  with  mild  demeanour,  as  he  spake, 
On  us  the  venerable  pastor  turned 
His  beaming  eye  that  had  been  raised  to  Heaven, 
"  Once,  while  the  name  Jehovah  was  a  sound, 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  sea-girt  isle, 
Unheard,  the  savage  nations  bowed  the  head 
To  gods  delighting  in  remorseless  deeds  ; 
Gods  which  themselves  had  fashioned,  to  promote 
111  purposes,  and  flatter  foul  desires. 
Then  in  the  bosom  of  yon  mountain  cove. 
To  those  inventions  of  corrupted  man 
Mysterious  rites  were  solemnized  ;  and  there, 
Amid  impending  rocks  and  gloomy  woods, 
Of  those  terrific  idols,  some  received 
Such  dismal  service,  that  the  loudest  voice 


THE  EXCTTRSIOR.  M 

Of  the  swoln  cataracts  (which  now  are  heart 

Soft  murmuring)  was  too  weak  to  overcome, 

Though  aided  by  wild  winds,  the  groans  and  shrieks 

Of  human  victims,  ottered  up  to  appease 

Or  to  propitiate.     And  if  living  eyes 

Had  visionary  faculties  to  see 

The  thing  that  hath  been  as  the  thing  that  is, 

Aghast  we  might  behold  this  crystal  mere 

Bedimmed  with  smoke,  in  wreaths  voluminous, 

Flung  from  the  body  of  devouring  fires, 

To  Taranis  erected  on  the  heights 

By  priestly  hands,  for  sacrifice,  performed 

Exultingly,  in  view  of  open  day 

And  full  assemblage  of  a  barbarous  host  ; 

Or  to  Andates,  female  power  !  who  gave 

(For  so  they  fancied)  glorious  victory. 

A  few  rude  monuments  of  mountain-stone 

Survive  ;  all  else  is  swept  away, — How  bright 

The  appearances  of  things  !     From  such,  how  changed 

The  existing  worship  ;  and,  with  those  compared, 

The  worshippers  how  innocent  and  blest ! 

So  wide  the  difference,  a  willing  mind, 

At  this  affecting  hour,  might  almost  think 

That  Paradise,  the  lost  abode  of  man, 

Was  raised  again  :  and  to  a  happy  few, 

In  its  original  beauty,  here  restored. 

Whence  but  from  thee,  the  true  and  only  God, 

And  from  the  faith  derived  through  Him  who  bled 

Upon  the  cross,  this  marvellous  advance 

Of  good  from  evil ;  as  if    ne  extreme 

We  left — the  other  gained. — O  ye,  who  come 

To  kneel  devoutly  in  yon  reverend  pile, 

Called  to  such  office  by  the  peaceful  sound 

Of  Sabbath  bells  ;  and  ye,  who  sleep  in  earth, 

All  cares  forgotten,  round  its  hallowed  walls  ! 

For  you,  in  presence  of  this  little  band 

Gathered  together  on  the  green  hill-side, 

Your  pastor  is  emboldened  to  prefer 

Vocal  thanksgivings  to  the  eternal  King  ; 

Whose  love,  whose  counsel,  whose  commands  have  made 

Your  very  poorest  rich  in  peace  of  thought 

And  in  good  works ;  and  him,  who  is  endowed 

With  scantiest  knowledge,  master  of  all  truth 

Which  the  salvation  of  his  soul  requires. 

Conscious  of  that  abundant  favour  showered 

On  you,  the  children  of  my  humble  care, 

And  this  dear  land,  our  country  while  on  earth 

We  sojourn,  have  I  lifted  up  my  soul, 

Joy  giving  voice  to  fervent  gratitude. 

These  barren  rocks,  your  stern  inheritance  ; 

These  fertile  fields,  that  recompense  your  pains  ; 

The  shadowy  vale,  the  sunny  mountain  top  ; 

Woods  waving  in  the  wind  their  lofty  heads, 

Or  hushed  ;  the  roaring  waters  and  the  still  ; 

They  see  the  offering  of  my  lifted  hands — 

They  hear  my  lips  present  their  sacrifice — 

They  know  if  I  be  silent  morn  or  even  : 

For,  though  in  whispers  speaking,  the  full  heart 


496  THE  EXCURSION. 

Will  find  a  vent ;  and  thought  is  praise  to  Him, 

Audible  praise,  to  Thee,  Omniscient  Mind, 

From  Whom  all  gifts  descend,  all  blessings  flow  I " 

This  vesper  service  closed,  without  delay, 
From  that  exalted  station  to  the  plain 
Descending,  we  pursued  our  homeward  course. 
In  mute  composure,  o'er  the  shadowy  lake, 
Beneath  a  faded  sky.     No  trace  remained 
Of  those  celestial  splendours  ;  grey  the  vault, 
Pure,  cloudless  ether  ;  and  the  star  of  eve 
Was  wanting  ; — but  inferior  lights  appeared 
Faintly,  too  faint  almost  for  sight  ;  and  some 
Above  the  darkened  hills  stood  boldly  forth 
In  twinkling  lustre,  ere  the  boat  attained 
Her  mooring-place  ; — where,  to  the  sheltering  tree, 
Our  youthful  voyagers  bound  fast  her  prow 
With  prompt  yet  careful  hands.     This  done,  we  paced 
The  dewy  fields  ;  but  ere  the  vicar's  door 
Was  reached,  the  Solitary  checked  his  steps  ; 
Then,  intermingling  thanks,  on  each  bestowed 
A  farewell  salutation, — and,  the  like 
Receiving,  took  the  slender  path  that  leads 
To  the  one  cottage  in  the  lonely  dell  ; 
But  turned  not  without  welcome  promise  given, 
That  he  would  share  the  pleasures  and  pursuits 
Of  yet  another  summer's  day,  consumed 
In  wandering  with  us  through  the  valleys  fair, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-wastes.     "Another  sun," 
Said  he,  "  shall  shine  upon  us,  ere  we  part, — 
Another  sun,  and  peradventure  more  ; 
If  time,  with  free  consent,  is  yours  to  give, — 
And  season  favours." 

To  enfeebled  power, 
From  this  communion  with  uninjured  minds, 
What  renovation  had  been  brought  ;  and  what 
Degree  of  healing  to  a  wounded  spirit, 
Dejected,  and  habitually  disposed 
To  seek,  in  degradation  of  the  kind. 
Excuse  and  solace  for  her  own  defects  ; 
How  far  those  erring  notions  were  reformed  : 
And  whether  aught,  of  tendency  as  good 
And  pure,  from  further  intercourse  ensued  ; 
This — (if  delightful  hopes,  as  heretofore, 
Inspire  the  serious  song,  and  gentle  hearts 
Cherish,  and  lofty  minds  approve  the  past) 
My  future  labours  may  not  leave  untold. 


THE  EXCURSION.  497 


NOTES. 


Preface.    Page  336. 

"  Descend,  proplietic  Spirit,  t/iat  tnspireit 
The  human  soul  0/ universal  earth," 

"  Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 

Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come.'' 

— Siiaksi'EARe's  Sonnets. 

Page  343. 
"  He  wandered  forth,  much  did  he  see  of  men." 

At  the  risk  of  giving  a  shock  to  the  prejudice  of  artificial  society,  I  have  ever  been  ready  to 
pay  homage  to  the  aristocracy  of  nature  ;  under  a  conviction  that  vigorous  human-heartedness  is 
the  constituent  principle  of  true  taste.  It  may  still,  however,  be  satisfactory  to  have  prose  testi- 
monv  how  far  a  character,  employed  for  purposes  of  imagination,  is  founded  upon  general  fact. 
I  therefore  subjoin  an  extract  from  an  author  who  had  opportunities  of  being  well  acquainted  with 
a  class  of  men  from  whom  my  own  personal  knowledge  emboldened  me  to  draw  this  portrait  :  ■ — 

"  We  learn  from  Caesar  and  other  Roman  writers,  that  the  travelling  merchants  who  frequented 
Gaul  and  other  barbarous  countries,  either  newly  conquered  by  the  Roman  arms  or  bordering  on 
the  Roman  conquests,  were  ever  the  first  to  make  the  inhabitants  of  those  countries  familiarly  ac- 
quainted with  the  Roman  modes  of  life,  and  to  inspire  them  with  an  inclination  to  follow  the 
Roman  fashions,  and  to  enjoy  Roman  conveniences.  In  North  America,  travelling  merchants 
from  the  settlements  have  done  and  continue  to  do  much  more  towards  civilizing  the  Indian  natives 
than  all  the  missionaries,  Papist  or  Protestant,  who  have  ever  been  sent  among  them. 

"  It  is  farther  to  be  observed,  for  the  credit  of  this  most  useful  class  of  men,  that  they  com- 
monly contribute,  by  their  personal  manners,  no  less  than  by  the  sale  of  their  wares,  to  the  refine- 
ment of  the  people  among  whom  they  travel.  Their  dealings  form  them  to  great  quickness  of  wit 
and  acuteness  of  judgment.  Having  constant  occasion  to  recommend  themselves  and  their  goods 
they  acquire  habits  of  the  most  obliging  attention,  and  the  most  insinuating  address.  As  in  their 
peregrinations  they  have  opportunity  of  contemplating  the  manners  of  various  men  and  various 
cities,  they  become  eminently  skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  the  world.  As  they  wander,  each  alone, 
through  thinly-inhabited  districts .  they  form  habits  of  reflection  and  of  sublime  contemplation. 
With  all  these  qualifications,  no  wonder,  that  they  should  often  be,  in  remote  parts  of  the  country, 
the  best  mirrors  of  fashion  and  censors  of  manners  ;  and  should  contribute  much  to  polish  the 
roughness,  and  soften  the  rusticity  of  our  peasantry.  It  is  not  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  years, 
since  a  young  man  going  from  any  part  of  Scotland  to  England,  on  purpose  to  carry  the  pack,  was 
considered  as  going  to  lead  the  life,  and  acquire  the  fortune,  of  a  gentleman.  When,  after  twenty 
years'  absence,  in  that  honourable  line  of  employment,  he  returned  with  his  acquisitions  to  his 
native  country,  he  was  regarded  as  a  gentleman  to  all  intents  and  purposes." — Heron's  "  Journey 
in  Scotland, "  vol.  i.  p   89. 

Page  373. 

"  Lost  in  unsearchable  eternity  .'" 

Since  this  paragraph  was  composed,  I  have  read  with  so  much  pleasure,  in  Burnet's  "Theory 
of  the  Earth,"  a  passage  expressing  correspondent  sentiments,  excited  by  objects  of  a  similar  nature, 
that  I  cannot  forbear  to  transcribe  it : — 

"  Siquod  vero  Natura  nobis  dedit  spectaculum,  in  hac  tellure,  vere  gratum,  et  philosopno 
dignum,  id  semel  mihi  contigisse  arbitror  :  ciim  ex  celsissuna  rupe  speculabundus  ad  oram  mans 
Mediterranei,  hinc  a:quor  caeraleum,  illinc  tractus  Alpinos  prospexi :  nihil  quidem  magis  dispar 
Hit  dissimile,  nee  in  suo  genere,  magis  egregium  et  singulare.  Hoc  theatrum  ego  facile  prajtulerim 
Romanis  cunctis,  Gra;cisve  ;  atque  id  quod  natura  hie  spectandum  cxhibet.  scenicis  ludis  omnibus, 
aut  amphitheatri  certaminibus.  Nihil  hie  elegans  aut  venustum,  sed  ingens  et  magnificum,  et 
quod  placet  magnitudine  sua  et  quadam  specie  immensitatis  Hinc  intuebar  maris  aequabilem 
supcrficiem,  usque  et  u^rjiie  diffusam,  quantum  maximum  oculorum  acies  ferri  potuit  :  illinc  dis- 
ruptissimam  terrae  facicm,  et  vastas  moles  varic  elevatas  aut  depressas,  erectas,  propendentes,  re- 


4P&  THE  EXCURSION. 

clinatas,  coacervatas,  omni  situ  inaequali  et  turbido.  Placuit,  ex  hac  parte,  Naturae  unitas  et  sim- 
plicitas,  et  inexhausta  quaedam  planities  ,  ex  altera,  multiformis  confusio  magnorum  corporum,  et 
insanae  rerum  strages :  quas  ciim  intuebar,  non  urbis  alicujus  aut  oppidi,  sed  confracti  mundi 
rudera,  ante  oculos  habere  mihi  visus  sum. 

"  In  singulis  fere  montibus  erat  aliquid  insolens  et  mirabile,  sed  prae  caeteris  mihi  placebat  ilia, 
qua  sedebam,  rupes  ;  erat  maxima  et  altissima,  et  qua  terram  respiciebat,  mollion  ascensu  altitu- 
dinem  suam  dissimulabat :  qua  vero  mare,  horrendum  praeceps,  et  quasi  ad  perpendiculum  facta, 
instar  parietis.  Praeterea  facies  ilia  marina  ade6  erat  laevis  ac  uniformis  (quod  in  rupibus  aliquando 
observare  licet)  ac  si  scissa  fuisset  a  summo  ad  imum,  in  lllo  piano  ;  vel  terras  motu  aliquo,  aut 
fulmine,  divulsa. 

"  Ima  pars  rupis  erat  cava,  recessusque  habuit,  et  saxeos  specus,  euntes  in  vacuum  montem  : 
sive  natura  pridem  factos,  sive  exesos  mari,  et  undarum  crebris  ictibus  :  In  hos  enim  cum  lmpetu 
ruebant  et  fragore,  aestuantis  maris  fluctus  ;  quos  iterum  spumantes  reddidit  antrum,  et  quasi  ab 
imo  ventre  evomuit.  _. 

"  Dextrum  latus  montis  erat  praeruptum,  aspero  saxo  et  nuda  caute  ;  sinistrum  non  adeu  neg- 
lexerat  Natura,  arbonbus  utpote  ornatum:  et  prope  pedem  montis  rivus  limpidae  aquae  prorupit : 
qui  cum  vicinam  vallem  irrigaverat,  lento  motu  serpens,  et  per  varios  maeandros,  quasi  ad  protra- 
hendam  vitam,  in  magno  mari  absorptus  subito  periit.  Denique  in  summo  vertice  promontoni, 
commode  "minebat  saxum,  cui  insidebam  contemplabundus.  Vale  augusta  sedes,  Rcge  digna : 
Augusta  rupes,  semper  mihi  memoranda  !" — Page  89.  Telluris  Theoria  sacra,  etc.  Editio 
sccunda. 

Page  387. 
"  Of  Mississippi  or  that  northern  stream." 

"  A  man  is  supposed  to  improve  by  going  out  into  the  world,  by  visiting  London.  Artificial 
man  does  .  he  extends  with  his  sphere  ;  but,  alas  !  that  sphere  is  microscopic :  it  is  formed  of 
minutiae,  and  he  surrenders  his  genuine  vision  to  the  artist,  in  order  to  embrace  it  in  his  ken. 
His  bodily  senses  grow  acute,  even  to  barren  and  inhuman  pruriency:  while  his  mental  become 
proportionally  obtuse.  The  reverse  is  the  man  of  mind  :  he  who  is  placed  in  the  sphere  of  nature 
and  of  God,  might  be  a  mock  at  TattersalPs  and  Brookes's,  and  a  sneer  at  St.  James's :  he  would 
certainly  be  swallowed  alive  by  the  first  Pizarro  that  crossed  him.  But  when  he  walks  along  the 
river  of  Amazons  ,  when  he  rests  his  eye  on  the  unrivalled  Andes  ;  when  he  measures  the  long 
and  watered  Savanna  ;  or  contemplates  from  a  sudden  promontory,  the  distant,  vast  Pacific — and 
feels  himself  a  freeman  in  this  vast  theatre,  and  commanding  each  ready-produced  fruit  of  this 
wilderness,  and  each  progeny  of  this  stream — his  exaltation  is  not  less  than  imperial.  He  is  as 
gentle,  too,  as  he  is  great.  His  emotions  of  tenderness  keep  pace  with  his  elevation  of  sentiment : 
for  he  says,  '  These  were  made  by  a  good  being,  who,  unsought  by  me,  placed  me  here  to  enjoy 
them.'  He  becomes  at  once  a  child  and  a  king.  His  mind  is  in  himself;  from  hence  he  argues, 
and  from  hence  he  acts  ;  and  he  argues  unerringly,  and  acts  magisterially  His  mind  in  himself  is 
also  in  his  God  ;  and  therefore  he  loves,  and  therefore  he  soars."— From  the  notes  upon  "  The 
Hurricane,"  a  Poem,  by  William  Gilbert. 

The  reader,  I  am  sure,  will  thank  me  for  the  above  quotation,  which,  though  from  a  strange 
book,  is  one  of  the  finest  passages  of  modern  English  prose. 

Page  391. 

"  'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 

Earth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  Heaven." 

See,  upon  this  subject,  Baxter's  most  interesting  review  of  his  own  opinions  and  sentiments 
in  the  decline  of  life.  It  may  be  found  (lately  reprinted)  in  Dr.  Wordsworth's  "  Ecclesiastical 
Biography." 

Page  393. 

"  Alas  !  the  endowment  of  immortal  power, 
Is  matched  unequally  with  custom,  time." 

This  subject  is  treated  at  length  in  the  Ode—"  Intimations  of  Immortality"— at  page  313. 

Page  395. 

"  Knowing  iJie  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be." 

The  passage  quoted  from  Daniel  is  taken  from  a  peem  addressed  to  the  Lady  Margaret,  Coun- 
tess of  Cumberland,  and  the  two  last  lines,  printed  in  Italics,  are  by  him  translated  from  Seneca. 
The  whole  poem  is  very  beautiful.  I  will  transcribe  four  stanzas  from  it,  as  they  contain  an 
admirable   picture  of  the  state  of  2  wi,c  in.  11 '<  mind  in  a  time  of  public  commotion  : — 


THE  EXCURSION.  499 

"  Nor  is  he  moved  with  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  tyrants'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  power,  that  proudly  sits  on  others'  crimes  ; 
Charged  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he  checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 
Appal  not  him  ;  that  hath  no  side  at  all, 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

"Although  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distressed  mortality, 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility  : 
Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run, 
He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-dont:. 

A  ''(1  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses, 
And  is  encompassed,  while  as  cralt  deceives, 
And  is  deceived  :  whilst  man  doth  ransack  man, 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress; 
And  the  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes  :  he  looks  thereon, 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet  eye, 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

"Thus,  lady,  fares  that  man  that  hath  prepared 
A  rest  for  his  desires  :  and  sees  all  things 
Beneath  him  ;  and  hath  learned  this  book  01  man, 
Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty  :  and  compared 
The  best  of  glory  with  her  sufferings  : 
By  whom,  I  see,  you  labour  all  you  can 
To  plant  your  heart :  and  set  your  thoughts  as  near 
His  glorious  mansion  as  your  powers  can  bear." 

Page  424. 

"  Or  rather,  as  we  stand  on  holy  earth, 
A  ml  have  the  dead  around  its. " 

Lro.    You,  sir,  would  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  graves  ? 

Priest  For  eight-score  winters  past, 

With  what  I've  witnessed  and  with  what  I  've  heard, 
Perhaps  I  might ;     —     —     —    —    —    — 

By  turning  o'er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 

We  two  could  travel,  sir,  through  a  strange  round; 

Yet  all  in  tJt£  broad  highway  of  the  -world. 

See  Page  32,  col.  v. 

Page  430. 
"  AticI  /rentle  natters  grieved  that  one  should  die." 

— Southey*s  "Retrospect" 

Page  430. 

"  And  whe-ice  that  tribute?  a  ^.-re/ore  these  regards?" 

The  sentiments  and  opinions  here  uttered  are  in  unison  with  those  expressed  in  the  following 
Essay  upon  Epitaphs,  which  was  furnished  by  the  author  for  Mr.  Coleridge's  periodical  work. 
The  Friend ;  and  as  they  are  dictated  by  a  spirit  congenial  to  that  which  pervades  this  and  the  two 
succeeding  books,  the  sympathisina  reader  will  not  be  displeased  to  see  the  essay  here  annexed. 


500  THE  EXCURSION. 


ESSAY   UPON   EPITAPHS. 

Jt  needs  scarcely  be  said,  that  an  epitaph  presupposes  a  monument,  upon  which  it  is  to  be 
engraven.  Almost  all  nations  have  wished  that  certain  external  signs  should  point  out  the  places 
where  their  dead  are  interred.  Among  savage  tribes  unacquainted  with  letters,  this  has  mostly 
been  done  either  hy  rude  stones  placed  near  the  graves,  or  by  mounds  of  earth  raised  over  them. 
This  custom  proceeded  obviously  from  a  twofold  desire  ;  first,  to  guard  the  remains  of  the  deceased 
from  irreverent  approach  or  from  savage  violation  :  and,  secondly,  to  preserve  their  memory. 
"  Never  any,''  says  Camden,  "  neglected  burial  but  some  savage  nations  ;  as  the  Bactrians,  which 
cast  their  dead  to  the  dogs  ;  some  varlet  philosophers,  as  Diogenes,  who  desired  to  be  devoured  of 
fishes  ;  some  dissolute  courtiers,  as  Maecenas,  who  was  wont  to  say,  "  Non  tumulum  euro  ;  sepelit 
natura  relictos." 

I'm  careless  of  a  grave .  nature  her  dead  will  save." 

As  soon  as  nations  had  learned  the  use  of  letters,  epitaphs  were  inscribed  upon  these  monuments; 
in  order  that  their  intention  might  be  more  surely  and  adequately  fulfilled.  I  have  derived  monu- 
ments and  epitaphs  from  two  sources  of  feeling  :  but  these  do  in  fact  resolve  themselves  into  one. 
The  invention  of  epitaphs,  Weever,  in  his  Discourse  of  Funeral  Monuments,  says  rightly,  "pro- 
ceeded from  the  presage  or  fore-feeling  of  immortality,  implanted  in  all  men  naturally,  and  is 
referred  to  the  scholars  of  Linus  the  Theban  poet,  who  flourished  about  the  year  of  the  world  two 
thousand  seven  hundred  ;  who  first  bewailed  this  Linus  their  master,,  when  he  was  slain,  in  doleful 
verses,  then  called  of  him  CEhna,  afterwards  epitaphia,  for  that  they  were  first  sung  at  burials, 
after  engraved  upon  the  sepulchres." 

And,  verily,  without  the  consciousness  of  a  principle  of  immortality  in  the  human  soul,  man 
could  never  have  had  awakened  in  hin  the  desire  to  live  in  the  remembrance  of  his  fellows  :  mere  love, 
or  the  yearning  of  kind  towards  kind,  could  not  have  produced  it.  The  dog  or  horse  perishes  in 
the  field,  or  in  the  stall,  by  the  side  of  his  companions,  and  is  incapable  of  anticipating  the  sorrow 
with  which  his  surrounding  associates  shall  bemoan  his  death,  or  pine  for  his  loss  ;  he  cannot  pre- 
conceive this  regret,  he  can  form  no  thought  of  it ;  and  therefore  cannot  possibly  have  a  desire  to 
leave  such  regret  or  remembrance  behind  him.  Add  to  the  principle  of  love,  which  exists  in  the 
inferior  animals,  the  faculty  of  reason  which  exists  in  man  alone  ;  will  the  conjunction  of  these 
account  for  the  desire  ?  Doubtless  it  is  a  necessary  consequence  of  this  conjunction  :  yet  not  I 
think  as  a  direct  result,  but  only  to  be  come  at  through  an  intermediate  thought,  viz.  That  of  an 
intimation  or  assurance  within  us,  that  some  part  of  our  nature  is  imperishable  At  least  the  pre- 
cedence, in  order  of  birth,  of  one  feeling  to  the  other,  is  unquestionable.  If  we  look  back  upon  the 
days  of  ehildhood,  we  shall  find  that  the  time  is  not  in  remembrance  when,  with  respect  to  our  own 
individual  being,  the  mind  was  without  this  assurance  ;  whereas  the  wish  to  be  remembered  by  our 
friends  or  kindred  after  death,  or  even  in  absence,  is,  as  we  shall  discover,  a  sensation  that  does  not 
form  itself  till  the  social  feelings  have  been  developed,  and  the  reason  has  connected  itself  with  a 
wide  range  of  objects  Forlorn,  and  cut  off  from  communication  with  the  best  part  of  his  nature, 
must  that  man  be,  who  should  derive  the  sense  of  immortality,  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of  a  child, 
from  the  same  unthinking  gaiety  or  liveliness  of  animal  spirits  with  which  the  lamb  in  the  meadow, 
or  any  other  irrational  creature,  is  endowed  ;  who  should  ascribe  it,  in  short,  to  blank  ignorance  in 
\he  child  ;  to  an  inability  arising  from  ihe  imperfect  state  of  his  faculties  to  come,  in  any  point  of 
his  being,  into  contact  with  a  notion  of  death  :  or  to  an  unreflecting  acquiescence  in  what  had  been 
instilled  into  him  !  Has  such  an  unfolder  of  the  mysteries  of  nature,  though  he  may  have  forgotten 
his  former  self,  ever  noticed  this  early,  obstinate,  and  unappeasable  inquisitiveness  of  children  upon 
the  subject  of  origination  ?  This  single  fact  proves  outwardly  the  monstrousness  of  those  supposi 
tions  :  for.  it  we  had  no  direct  external  testimony  that  the  minds  of  very  young  children  meditate 
feelingly  upon  death  and  immortality,  these  inquiries,  which  we  all  know  they  are  perpetually 
making  concerning  the  w/ience,  do  necessarily  include  correspondent  habits  of  interrogation  con- 
cerning the  whither  Origin  and  tendency  are  notions  inseparably  co-relative.  Never  did  a  child 
stand  by  the  side  of  a  running  stream,  pondering  within  himself  what  power  was  the  feeder  of  the 
perpetual  current,  Irom  what  never-we.iried  sources  the  body  of  water  was  supplied,  but  he  must 
have  been  inevitably  propelled  to  follow  this  question  by  another  :  "Towards  what  abyss  is  it  in  pro- 
gress? what  receptacle  can  contain  the  mighty  influx?"  And  the  spirit  of  the  answer  must  have 
been,  though  the  word  might  be  sea  or  ocean,  accompanied  perhaps  with  an  image  gathered  from 
3.  map,  or  from  the  real  object  in  nature — these  might  have  been  the  letter,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
answer  must  have  been  as  inevitably, — a  receptacle  without  bounds  or  dimensions  ; — nothing  less 
than  infinity.  We  may.  then,  be  justified  in  asserting,  that  the  sense  of  immortality,  if  not  a  co- 
existent and  twain  birth  with  reason,  is  among  the  earliest  of  her  offspring :  and  we  may  furthet 
assert,  that  from  these  conioined,  and  under  their  countenance,  the  human  affections  are  gradually 
formed  and  opened  out.     This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  the  recesses  of  these  investigations  ;  but 


Tin:  EXCURSION.  501 

the  subject  requires  me  here  to  tinkc  a  plain  avowal,  that,  for  my  own  part,  it  is  to  me  inconceiv- 
able, that  the  sympathies  of  love  towards  each  other,  which  grow  with  our  growth,  could  ever 
attain  any  new  strength,  or  even  preserve  the  old,  after  we  had  received  from  the  outward  senses 
the  impression  of  death,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  having  that  impression  daily  renewed  and  its 
accompanying  feeling  brought  home  to  ourselves,  and  to  those  we  love ;  if  the  same  were  not 
counteracted  by  those  communications  with  our  internal  being,  which  are  anterior  to  all  these 
experiences,  and  with  which  revelation  coincides,  and  has  through  that  coincidence  alone  (for 
otherwise  it  could  not  possess  it)  a  power  to  affect  us.  I  confess,  with  me  the  conviction  is  abso- 
lute, that,  if  the  impression  and  sense  of  death  were  not  thus  counterbalanced,  such  a  hollowness 
would  pervade  the  whole  system  of  things,  such  a  want  ol  correspondence  and  consistency,  a  dis- 
proportion so  astounding  betwixt  means  and  ends,  that  there  could  be  no  repose,  no  joy.  Were  we 
to  grow  up  unfostered  by  this  genial  warmth,  a  frost  would  chill  the  spirit,  so  penetrating  and  power- 
ful, that  there  could  be  no  motions  of  the  life  of  love  ;  and  infinitely  less  could  we  have  any  wish  to 
be  remembered  after  we  had  passed  away  from  a  world  in  which  each  man  had  moved  about  like  a 
shadow.  —  If,  then,  in  a  creature  endowed  with  the  faculties  of  foresight  and  reason,  the  social 
affections  could  not  have  unfolded  themselves  uncountenanced  by  the  faith  that  man  is  an  immortal 
being;  and  if,  consequently,  neither  could  the  individual  dying  have  had  a  desire  to  survive  in  the 
remembrance  of  his  fellows,  nor  on  their  side  could  they  have  felt  a  wish  to  preserve  for  future 
times  vestiges  of  the  departed  :  it  follows,  as  a  final  inference,  that  without  the  belief  in  immortality, 
wherein  these  several  desires  originate,  neither  monuments  nor  epitaphs,  in  affectionate  or  laudatory 
commemoration  of  the  deceased,  could  have  existed  in  the  world. 

Simonides,  it  is  related,  upon  landing  in  a  strange  country,  found  the  corse  of  an  unknown  per- 
son, lying  by  the  sea-side  :  he  buried  it,  and  was  honoured  throughout  Greece  for  the  piety  of  that 
act.  Another  ancient  philosopher,  chancing  to  fix  his  eyes  upon  a  dead  body,  regarded  the  same 
with  slight,  if  not  with  contempt  ;  saying,  "  See,  the  shell  of  the  flown  bird  !  "  But  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  the  moral  and  tender-hearted  Simonides  was  incapable  of  the  lofty  movements  of 
thought,  to  which  that  other  sage  gave  way  at  the  moment  while  his  soul  was  intent  only  upon  the 
indestructible  being  ;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  that  he,  in  whose  sight  a  lifeless  human  body  was  of 
no  more  value  than  the  worthless  shell  from  which  the  living  fowl  had  departed,  would  not,  in  a 
different  mood  of  mind,  have  been  affected  by  those  earthly  considerations  which  had  incited  the 
philosophic  poet  to  the  performance  of  that  pious  duty.  And  with  regard  to  this  latter  we  may  be 
assured  that,  if  he  had  been  destitute  of  the  capability  of  communing  with  the  more  exalted 
thoughts  that  appertain  to  human  nature,  he  would  have  cared  no  more  for  the  corse  of  the  stranger 
than  for  the  dead  body  of  a  seal  or  porpoise  which  might  have  been  cast  up  by  the  waves.  We 
respect  the  corporeal  frame  of  man,  not  merely  because  it  is  the  habitation  of  a  rational,  but  of  an 
immortal  soul.  Each  of  these  sages  was  in  sympathy  with  the  best  feelings  of  our  nature  :  feelings 
which,  though  they  seem  opposite  to  each  other,  have  another  and  a  finer  connection  than  that  of 
contrast. — It  is  a  connection  formed  through  the  subtle  progress  by  which,  both  in  the  natural  and 
the  moral  world,  qualities  pass  insensibly  into  their  contraries,  2nd  things  revolve  upon  each  other. 
As,  in  sailing  upon  the  orb  of  this  planet,  a  voyage  towards  the  regions  where  the  sun  sets,  con- 
ducts gradually  to  the  quarter  where  we  have  been  accustomed  to  behold  it  come  forth  at  its 
rising  ;  and,  in  like  manner,  a  voyage  towards  the  east,  the  birthplace  in  our  imagination  of  the 
morning,  leads  finally  to  the  quarter  where  the  sun  is  last  seen  when  he  departs  from  our  eyes  ;  so 
the  contemplative  soul,  travelling  in  the  direction  of  mortality,  advances  to  the  country  of  everlast- 
ing life ;  and,  in  like  manner,  may  she  continue  to  explore  those  cheerful  tracts,  till  she  is  brought 
back,  for  her  advantage  and  benefit,  to  the  land  of  transitory  things — of  sorrow  and  of  tears. 

On  a  midway  point,  therefore,  which  commands  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  two  sages 
whom  we  have  represented  in  contrast,  does  the  author  of  that  species  of  composition,  the  laws  of 
tvhich  it  is  our  present  purpose  to  explain,  take  his  stand.  Accordingly,  recurring  to  the  twofold 
desire  of  guarding  the  remains  of  the  deceased  and  preserving  their  memory,  it  may  be  said  that  a 
sepulchral  monument  is  a  tribute  to  a  man  as  a  human  being  ;  and  that  an  epitaph,  (in  the  ordinary 
meaning  attached  to  the  word)  includes  this  general  feeling  and  something  more  ,  and  is  a  record 
to  preserve  the  memory  of  the  dead,  as  a  tribute  due  to  his  individual  worth,  for  a  satisfaction  to 
the  sorrowing  hearts  of  the  survivors,  and  for  the  common  benefit  of  the  living  :  which  record  is  to 
be  accomplished,  not  in  a  general  manner,  but,  where  it  can,  in  close  connection  •with  the  bodily 
remains  of  the  deceased ;  and  these,  it  may  be  added,  among  the  modern  nations  of  Europe  are 
deposited  within,  or  contiguous  to  their  places  of  worship.  In  ancient  times,  as  is  well  known,  it 
was  the  custom  to  bury  the  dead  beyond  the  walls  of  towns  and  cities  ;  and  among  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  they  were  frequently  interred  by  the  waysides. 

T  could  here  pause  with  pleasure,  and  invite  the  reader  to  indulge  with  me  in  contemplation  of 
the  advantages  which  must  have  attended  such  a  practice.  We  might  ruminate  upon  the  beauty 
which  the  monuments,  thus  placed,  must  have  borrowed  from  the  surrounding  images  of  nature— 
from  the  trees,  the  wild  flowers,  from  a  stream  running  perhaps  within  sight  or  hearing,  from  the 
beaten  road  stretching  its  weary  length  hard  by  Many  tender  similitudes  must  these  objects 
have  presented  to  the  mind  of  the  traveller  leaning  upon  one  of  the  tombs,  or  reposing  in  the 
coolness  of  its  shade,  whether  he  had  halted  from  weariness  or  in  compliance  with  the  invitation, 
"  Pause,  traveller  !"  so  often  found  upon  the  monuments.  And  to  its  epitaph  also  must  have  been 
supplied   strong  appeals  to  visible  appearances  or  immediate  impressions,   lively  and  affecting 


502  THE  EXCURSION. 

analogies  oflifc  as  a  journey — death  as  a  sleep  overcoming  the  tired  wayfarer — of  misfortune  as  a 
storm  that  falls  suddenly  upon  him — of  beauty  as  a  flower  that  passeth  away,  or  of  innocent 
pleasure  as  one  that  may  be  gathered — of  virtue  that  standeth  firm  as  a  rock  against  the  beating 
waves  ; — of  hope  "  undermined  insensibly  like  the  poplar  by  the  side  of  the  river  that  has  fed  it," 
or  blasted  in  a  moment  like  a  pine-tree  by  the  stroke  of  lightning  upon  the  mountain-top — of 
admonitions  and  heart-stirring  remembrances,  like  a  refreshing  breeze  that  comes  without  warning, 
or  the  taste  of  the  waters  of  an  unexpected  fountain.  These,  and  similar  suggestions,  must  have 
Siven,  lormerly,  to  the  language  of  the  senseless  stone  a  voice  enforced  and  endeared  by  the 
benignity  of  that  nature  with  which  it  was  in  unison. — We,  in  modern  times,  have  lost  much  of 
these  advantages  ;  and  they  are  but  in  a  small  degree  counterbalanced  to  the  inhabitants  of  large 
towns  and  cities,  by  the  custom  of  depositing  the  dead  within,  or  contiguous  to,  their  places  of 
worship  ;  however  splendid  or  imposing  may  be  the  appearance  of  those  edifices,  or  however  inte- 
resting or  salutary  the  recollections  associated  with  them.  Even  were  it  not  true  that  tombs  lose 
their  monitory  virtue  when  thus  obtruded  upon  the  notice  of  men  occupied  with  the  cares  of  th« 
world,  and  too  often  sullied  and  defiled  by  those  cares,  yet  still,  when  death  is  in  our  thoughts, 
nothing  can  make  amends  for  the  want  of  the  soothing  influences  of  nature,  and  for  the  absence  of 
those  types  of  renovation  and  decay,  which  the  fields  and  woods  offer  to  the  notice  of  the  serious 
and  contemplative  mind.  To  feel  the  force  of  this  sentiment,  let  a  man  only  compare  in  imagina- 
tion the  unsightly  manner  in  which  our  monuments  are  crowded  together  in  the  busy,  noisy.unclean, 
and  almost  grassless  churchyard  of  a  large  town,  with  the  still  seclusion  of  a  Turkish  cemetery, 
in  some  remote  place  ;  and  yet  further  sanctified  by  the  grove  of  cypress  in  which  it  is  embosomed. 
Thoughts  in  the  same  temper  as  these  have  already  been  expressed  with  true  sensibility  by  an 
ingenuous  poet  of  the  present  day.  The  subject  of  his  poem  is  "  All  Saints'  Church,  Derby  :"  he 
has  been  deploring  the  forbidding  and  unseemly  appearance  of  its  burial-ground,  and  uttering  a 
wish,  thatih  past  times  the  practice  had  been  adopted  of  interring  the  inhabitants  of  large  towns  in 
the  country ; — 

"Then  in  some  rural,  calm,  sequestered  spot, 

Where  healing  nature  her  benignant  look 

Ne'er  changes,  save  at  that  lorn  season,  when, 

With  tresses  drooping  o'er  her  sable  stole, 

She  yearly  mourns  the  mortal  doom  of  man, 

Her  noblest  work  (so  Israel's  virgins  erst, 

With  annual  moan  upon  the  mountains  wept 

Their  fairest  gone),  there  in  that  rural  scene, 

So  placid,  so  congenial  to  the  wish 

The  Christian  feels,  of  peaceful  rest  within 

The  silent  grave,  I  would  have  strayed : 
***** 

—  wandered  forth,  where  the  cold  dew  of  heaven 

Lay  on  the  humbler  graves  around,  what  time 

The  pale  moon  gazed  upon  the  turfy  mounds, 

Pensive,  as  though  like  me,  in  lonely  muse, 

'Twere  brooding  on  the  dead  inhumed  beneath. 

There  while  with  him,  the  holy  man  of  Uz, 

O'er  human  destiny  I  sympathized, 

Counting  the  long,  long  periods  prophecy 

Decrees  to  roll,  ere  the  great  day  arrives 

Of  resurrection,  oft  the  blue-eyed  spring 

Had  met  me  with  her  blossoms,  as  the  dove, 

Of  old,  returned  with  olive  leaf,  to  cheer 

The  patriarch  mourning  over  a  world  destroyed: 

And  I  would  bless  her  visit ;  for  to  me 

'Tis  sweet  to  trace  the  consonance  that  links 

As  one,  the  works  of  nature  and  the  word 

Of  God." 

John  Edwards. 

A  village  churchyard,  lying  as  it  does  in  the  lap  of  nature,  may  indeed  be  most  favourably 
contrasted  with  that  of  a  town  of  crowded  population  ;  and  sepulture  therein  combines  many  of 
the  best  tendencies  which  belong  to  the  mode  practised  by  the  ancients,  with  others  peculiar  to 
itself.  The  sensations  of  pious  cheerfulness,  which  attend  the  celebration  of  the  Sabbath-day  in 
rural  places,  are  profitably  chastised  by  the  sight  of  the  graves  of  kindred  and  friends,  gathered 
together  in  that  general  home  towards  which  the  thoughtful  yet  happy  spectators  themselves  are 
journeying.  Hence  a  parish  church,  in  the  stillness  of  the  country,  is  a  visible  centre  of  a  commu- 
nity of  the  living  and  the  dead  ;  a  point  to  which  are  habitually  referred  the  nearest  concerns  of 
both. 

As,  then,  both  in  cities  and  in  villages,  the  dead  are  deposited  in  close  connection  with  our 
places  of  worship,  with  us  the  composition  of  an  epitaph  naturally  turns,  still  more   than  among 


THE  EXCURSION.  503 

the  nations  of  antiquity,  upon  the  most  serious  and  solemn  affections  of  the  human  mind  ;  upon 
departed  worth— upon  personal  or  social  sorrow  and  admiration — upon  religion,  individual  anu 
social—upon  time,  and  upon  eternity.  Accordingly,  it  suffices,  in  ordinary  cases,  to  secure  » 
composition  of  this  kind  from  censure,  that  it  contains  nothing  that  shall  shock  or  be  inconsistent 
with  this  spirit.  But  to  entitle  an  epitaph  to  praise,  more  than  this  is  necessary.  It  ought  to 
contain  some  thought  or  feeling  belonging  to  the  mortal  or  immortal  part  of  our  nature  touchingly 
expressed  ;  and  if  that  be  done,  however  general  or  even  trite  the  sentiment  may  be,  every  man  of 
pure  mind  will  read  the  words  with  pleasure  and  gratitude.  A  husband  bewails  a  wife  ;  a  parent 
breathes  a  sigh  of  disappointed  hope  over  a  lost  child:  a  son  utters  a  sentiment  of  filial' reverence 
for  a  departed  father  or  mother  ;  a  friend  perhaps  inscribes  an  encomium  recording  the  companion- 
able qualities,  r  the  solid  virtues,  of  the  tenant  of  the  grave,  whose  departure  has  left  a  sadness 
upon  his  memory.  This,  and  a  pious  admonition  to  the  living,  and  a  humble  expression  of  a 
Christian  confidence  in  immortality,  is  the  language  of  a  thousand  churchyards  ;  and  it  does  not 
often  happen  that  anything,  in  a  greater  degree  discriminate  or  appropriate  to  the  dead  or  to  the 
living,  is  to  be  found  in  them.  This  want  of  discrimination  has  been  ascribed  by  Dr.  Johnson,  in 
his  essay  upon  the  Epitaphs  of  Pope,  to  two  causes  ;  first,  the  scantiness  of  the  objects  of  human 
praise;  and,  secondly,  the  want  of  variety  in  the  characters  of  men  ;  or,  to  use  his  own  words, 
"  to  the  fact,  that  the  greater  part  of  mankind  have  no  character  at  all."  Such  language  may  be 
holden  without  blame  among  the  generalities  of  common  conversation  ;  but  does  not  become  a 
critic  and  a  moralist  speaking  seriously  upon  a  s:-i  us  subject.  The  objects  of  admiration  in 
human  nature  are  not  scanty,  but  abundant  and  every  man  has  a  character  of  his  own,  to  the 
eye  that  has  skill  to  perceive  it.  The  real  cause  of  the  acknowledged  want  of  discrimination  in 
sepulchral  memorials  is  this— that  to  analyse  the  characters  of  others,  especially  of  those  whom 
we  love,  is  not  a  common  or  natural  employment  of  men  at  any  time.  We  arc  not  anxious  uner- 
ringly to  understand  the  constitution  of  those  minds  who  have  soothed,  who  have  cheered,  who 
have  supported  us  ;  with  whom  we  have  beeq  long  and  daily  pleased  or  delighted.  The  affections 
are  their  own  justification.  The  light  of  love  in  our  hearts  is  a  satisfactory  evidence  that  there  is  a 
body  of  worth  in  the  minds  of  our  friends  or  kindred,  whence  that  light  has  proceeded.  We  shrink 
from  the  thought  of  placing  their  merits  and  defects  to  be  weighed  against  each  other  in  the  nice 
balance  .fpure  intellect  ;  nor  do  we  find  much  temptation  to  detect  the  shades  by  which  a  good 
quality  or  virtue  is  discriminated  in  them  from  an  excellence  known  by  the  same  general  name  as 
it  exists  in  the  mind  of  another  ;  and,  least  of  all,  do  we  incline  to  these  refinements  when  under 
the  pressure  of  sorrow,  admiration,  or  regret,  or  when  actuated  by  any  of  those  feelings  which 
incite  men  to  prolong  the  memory  of  their  friends  and  kindred,  by  records  placed  in  the°bosom  of 
the  all-uniting  and  equalising  receptacle  of  the  dead. 

The  first  requisite,  then,  in  an  epitaph  is,  that  it  sh  ould  speak,  in  a  tone  which  shall  sink  inti 
the  heart,  the  general  language  of  humanity  as  conn  ected  with  the  subject  of  death— the  sourct 
from  which  an  epitaph  proceeds  ;  of  death  and  of  life.  To  be  born  and  to  die  are  the  two  points  in 
which  all  men  feel  themselves  to  be  in  absolute  coincidence.  This  general  language  may  be 
uttered  so  strikingly  as  to  entitle  an  epitaph  to  high  praise  ;  yet  it  cannot  lay  claim  to  the  highest 
unless  other  excellences  be  superadded.  Passing  through  all  intermediate  steps,  we  will  attempt 
to  determine  at  once  what  these  excellences  are,  and  wherein  consists  the  perfection  of  this  specie? 
of  composition.  It  will  be  found  to  lie  in  a  due  proportion  of  the  common  or  universal  feeling  of 
humanity  to  sensations  excited  by  a  distinct  and  clear  conception,  conveyed  to  the  reader's  mind, 
of  the  individual,  whose  death  is  deplored  and  whose  memory  is  to  be  preserved  ;  at  least  of  his 
character  as,  after  death,  it  appeared  to  those  who  loved  him  and  lament  his  loss.  The  general 
sympathy  ought  to  be  quickened,  provoked,  and  diversified,  by  particular  thoughts,  actions 
images—  circumstances  of  age,  occupation,  manner  of  life,  prosperity  which  the  deceased  had 
known,  or  adversity  to  which  he  had  been  subject  ;  and  these  ought  to  be  bound  together  and 
solemnized  into  one  harmony  by  the  general  sympathy.  The  two  powers  should  temper,  restrain 
and  exalt  each  other.  The  reader  ought  to  know  who  and  what  the  man  was  whom  he  is  called' 
upon  to  think  of  with  interest.  A  distinct  conception  should  be  given  (implicitly  where  it  can, 
rather  than  explicitly)  of  the  individual  lamented.  But  the  writer  of  an  epitaph  is  not  an  anatomist 
who  dissects  the  internal  frame  of  the  mind  ;  he  is  not  even  a  painter  who  executes  a  portrait  at 
leisure  and  in  entire  tranquillity :  his  delineation,  we  must  remember,  is  performed  by  the  side  of 
the  grave  ;  and,  what  is  more,  the  grave  of  one  whom  he  loves  and  admires.  What  purity  and 
brightness  is  that  virtue  clothed  in,  the  image  of  which  must  no  longer  bless  our  living  eyes  !  Thf 
character  of  a  deceased  friend  or  beloved  kinsman  is  not  seen,  no — nor  ought  to  be  seen,  otherwise 
than  as  a  tree  through  a  tender  haze  or  a  luminous  mist,  that  spiritualizes  and  beautifies  it  :  that 
takes  away  indeed,  but  only  to  the  end  that  the  parts  which  are  not  abstracted  may  appear  more 
dignified  and  lovely,  may  impress  and  affect  the  more.  Shall  we  say,  then,  that  this  is  not  truth, 
not  a  faithful  image  ;  and  that  accordingly  the  purposes  of  commemoration  cannot  be  answered  '/ 
It  is  truth,  and  of  the  highest  order  !  for,  though  doubtless  things  are  not  apparent  which  did 
exist :  yet,  the  object  being  looked  at  through  this  medium,  parts  and  proportions  are  brought  into 
distinct  view,  which  before  had  been  only  imperfectly  or  unconsciously  seen  :  it  is  truth  hallowed 
by  love— the  joint  offspring  of  the  worth  of  the  dead  and  the  affections  of  the  living  ?-  This  may 
easily  be  brought  to  the  test.  Let  one,  whose  eyes  have  been  sharpened  by  personal  hostility  ta 
(lisover  what  w.->s  amiss  in  the  character  of  a  good  man.  hear  the  tidings  of  his  death,  and  what  a 

2   M 


504  THE  EXCURSION. 

change  is  wrought  in  a  moment !  — Enmity  melts  away  ;  and,  as  it  disappears,  unsightliness,  dis- 
proportion, and  deformity,  vanish ;  and,  through  the  influence  of  commiseration,  a  harmony  of 
love  and  beauty  succeeds.  Bring  such  a  man  to  the  tombstone  on  which  shall  be  inscribed  an 
epitaph  on  his  adversary,  composed  in  the  spirit  which  we  have  recommended.  Would  he  turn  from 
it  as  from  an  idle  tale  !  No — the  thoughtful  look,  the  sigh,  and  perhaps  the  involuntary  tear, 
would  testify  that  it  had  a  sane,  a  generous,  and  good  meaning  ;  and  that  on  the  writer's  mind  had 
temained  an  impression  which  was  a  true  abstract  of  the  character  of  the  deceased  ;  that  his  gifts 
and  graces  were  remembered  in  the  simplicity  in  which  they  ought  to  be  remembered.  The  com- 
position and  quality  of  the  mind  of  a  virtuous  man,  contemplated  by  the  side  of  the  grave  where 
his  body  is  mouldering,  ought  to  appear,  and  be  felt  as  something  midway  between  what  he  was 
on  earth  walking  about  with  his  living  frailties,  and  what  he  may  be  presumed  to  be  as  a  spirit  in 
heaven. 

It  suffices,  therefore,  that  the  trunk  and  the  main  branches  of  the  worth  of  the  deceased  be 
boldly  and  unaffectedly  represented.  Any  further  detail,  minutely  and  scrupulously  pursued, 
especially  if  this  be  done  with  laborious  and  antithetic  discriminations,  must  inevitably  frustrate  its 
own  purpose  ;  forcing  the  passing  spectator  to  this  conclusion, — either  that  the  dead  did  not  possess 
the  merits  ascribed  to  him,  or  that  they  who  have  raised  a  monument  to  his  memory,  and  must 
therefore  be  supposed  to  have  been  closely  connected  with  him,  were  incapable  of  perceiving  those 
merits  :  or  at  least  during  the  act  of  composition  had  lost  sight  of  them  :  for,  the  understanding 
having  been  so  busy  in  its  petty  occupation,  how  could  the  heart  of  the  mourner  be  other  than 
cold?  and  in  either  of  these  cases,  whether  the  fault  be  on  the  part  of  the  buried  person  or  the 
survivors,  the  memorial  is  unaffecting  and  profitless. 

Much  better  is  it  to  fall  short  in  discrimination  than  to  pursue  it  too  far.  or  to  labour  it  unfeel- 
ingly. For  in  no  place  are  we  so  much  disposed  to  dwell  upon  those  points,  of  nature  and  condition, 
wherein  all  men  resemble  each  other,  as  in  the  temple  where  the  universal  Father  is  worshipped, 
or  by  the  side  of  the  grave  which  gathers  all  human  beings  to  itself,  and  ''  equalizes  the  lofty  and 
the  low."  We  suffer  and  we  weep  with  the  same  heart  ;  we  love  and  are  anxious  for  one  another 
in  one  spirit ;  our  hopes  look  to  the  same  quarter  :  and  the  virtues  by  which  we  are  all  to  be 
furthered  and  supported,  as  patience,  meekness,  goodwill,  temperance,  and  temperate  desires,  are 
in  an  equal  degree  the  concern  of  us  all.  Let  an  epitaph,  then,  contain  at  least  these  acknowledg- 
ments to  our  common  nature  ;  nor  let  the  sense  of  their  importance  be  sacrificed  to  a  balance  of 
opposite  qualities  or  minute  distinctions  in  individual  character;  which  if  they  do  not,  (as  will  for 
the  most  part  be  the  case)  when  examined,  resolve  themselves  into  a  trick  of  words,  will,  even 
when  they  are  true  and  just,  for  the  most  part  be  grievously  out  of  place  ;  for,  as  it  is  probable 
that  few  only  have  explored  these  intricacies  of  human  nature,  so  can  the  tracing  of  them  be 
interesting  only  to  a  few  But  an  epitaph  is  not  a  proud  writing  shut  up  for  the  studious  ;  it  is 
exposed  to  all,  to  the  wise  and  the  most  ignorant  ;  it  is  condescending,  perspicuous,  and  lovingly 
solicits  regard  ;  its  story  and  admonitions  are  brief,  that  the  thoughtless,  the  busy,  and  indolent, 
may  not  be  deterred,  nor  the  impatient  tired  ;  the  stooping  old  man  cons  the  engraven  record  like 
a  second  horn-book  ; — the  child  is  proud  that  he  can  read  it — and  the  stranger  is  introduced  by  its 
mediation  to  the  company  of  a  friend:  it  is  concerning  all,  and  for  all: — in  the  churchyard  it  is 
open  to  the  day  ;  the  sun  looks  down  upon  the  stone,  and  the  rains  of  heaven  beat  against  it. 

Yet,  though  the  writer  who  would  excite  sympathy  is  bound  in  this  case  more  than  in  any  other 
to  give  proof  that  he  himself  has  been  moved,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  to  raise  a  monument  is 
a  saber  and  a  reflective  act  :  that  the  inscription  which  it  bears  is  intended  to  be  permanent,  and 
for  universal  perusal ;  and  that,  for  this  reason,  the  thoughts  and  feelings  expressed  should  be 
permanent  also— liberated  from  that  weakness  and  anguish  of  sorrow  which  is  in  nature  transitory, 
and  which  with  instinctive  decency  retires  from  notice.  The  passions  should  be  subdued,  the 
emotions  controlled  ;  strong  indeed,  but  nothing  ungovernable  or  wholly  involuntary.  Seemliness 
requires  this,  and  truth  requires  it  also  :  for  how  can  the  narrator  otherwise  be  trusted?  Moreover, 
a  grave  is  a  tranquillizing  object :  resignation  in  course  of  time  springs  up  from  it  as  naturally  as 
tfas  wild  flowers,  besprinkling  the  turf  with  which  it  may  be  covered,  or  gathering  round  the  monu- 
ment by  which  it  is  defended.  The  very  form  and  substance  of  the  monument  which  has  received 
the  inscription,  and  the  appearance  of  the  letters,  testifying  with  what  a  slow  and  laborious  hand 
they  must  have  been  engraven,  might  seem  to  reproach  the  author  who  had  given  way  upon  this 
occasion  to  transports  of  mmd,  or  to  quick  turns  of  conflicting  passion  :  though  the  same  might 
constitute  the  life  and  beauty  of  a  funeral  oration  or  elegiac  poem. 

These  sensations  and  judgments,  acted  upon  perhaps  unconsciously,  have  been  one  of  the  main 
causes  why  epitaphs  so  often  personate  the  deceased,  and  represent  him  as  speaking  from  his  own 
tombstone.  The  departed  mortal  is  introduced  telling  you  himself  that  his  pains  are  gone  ;  that  a 
state  of  rest  is  come  ;  and  he  conjures  you  to  weep  for  him  no  longer.  He  admonishes  with  the 
voice  of  one  experienced  in  the  vanity  of  those  affections  which  are  confined  to  earthly  objects,  and 
gives  a  verdict  like  a  superior  being,  performing  the  office  of  ajudge,  who  has  no  temptations  to 
mislead  him.  and  whose  decision  cannot  but  be  dispassionate.  Thus  is  death  disarmed  of  its  sting, 
and  affliction  unsubstantialized.  By  this  tender  fiction,  the  survivors  bind  themselves  to  a  sedater 
sorrow,  and  employ  the  intervention  of  the  imagination  in  order  that  the  reason  may  speak  her 
own  language  earlier  than  she  would  otherwise  have  been  enabled  to  do.  This  shadowy  inter- 
position also  harmoniously  unites  the  two  worlds  of  the  living  and  the  dead  by  their  appropriate 


TTTE  EXCURSION.  505 

affections.     And  I  may  observe,  that  here  we  have  au  additional  proof  of  the  propriety  with  which 
sepulchral  inscriptions  were  referred  to  the  consciousness  of  immortality  as  their  primal  source. 

I  do  not  speak  with  a  wish  to  recommend  that  an  epitaph  should  be  cast  in  this  mould  preferably 
to  the  still  more  common  one,  in  which  what  is  said  comes  from  the  survivors  directly  ;  but  rather 
to  point  out  how  natural  those  feelings  arc  which  have  induced  men,  in  all  states  and  ranks  of 
society,  so  frequently  to  adopt  this  mode.  And  this  I  have  done  chiefly  in  order  that  the  laws, 
which  ought  to  govern  the  composition  of  the  other,  may  be  better  understood.  This  latter  mode, 
namely,  that  in  which  the  survivors  speak  in  their  own  persons,  seems  to  me  upon  the  whole 
greatly  preferable  :  as  it  admits  a  wider  range  of  notices  :  and,  above  all,  because,  excluding  the 
fiction  which  is  the  ground-work  of  the  other,  it  rests  upon  a  more  solid  basis. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  convey  our  notion  of  a  perfect  epitaph  ;  bill  it  must  be  observed  that 
one  is  meant  which  will  best  answer  the  general  ends  of  that  species  of  composition.  According 
to  the  course  pointed  out,  the  worth  of  private  life,  through  all  varieties  of  situation  and  character, 
will  be  most  honourably  and  profitably  preserved  in  memory.  Nor  would  the  model  recommended 
less  suit  public  men,  in  all  instances  save  of  those  persons  who,  by  the  greatness  of  their  services  in 
the  employments  of  peace  or  war,  or  by  the  surpassing  excellence  of  their  works  in  art,  literature, 
or  science,  have  made  themselves  not  only  universally  known,  but  have  filled  the  heart  of  their 
country  with  everlasting  gratitude.  Yet  I  must  here  pause  to  correct  myself.  In  describing  the 
general  tenor  of  thought  which  epitaphs  ought  to  hold,  I  have  omitted  to  say,  that,  if  it  be  the 
actions  of  a  man,  or  even  some  one  conspicuous  or  beneficial  act  of  local  or  general  utility,  which 
have  distinguished  him,  and  excited  a  desire  that  he  should  be  remembered,  then,  of  course,  ought 
the  attention  to  be  directed  chiefly  to  those  actions  or  that  act  ;  and  such  sentiments  dwelt  upon  as 
naturally  arise  out  of  them  or  it.  Having  made  this  necessary  distinction,  I  proceed. — Tfr 
mighty  benefactors  of  mankind,  as  they  are  not  only  known  by  the  immediate  survivors,  but  wilt 
continue  to  be  known  familiarly  to  latest  posterity,  do  not  stand  in  need  of  biographic  sketches,  in 
such  a  place  ;  nor  of  delineations  of  character  to  individualize  them.  This  is  already  done  by 
their  works,  in  the  memories  of  men.  Their  naked  names  and  a  gra.nd  comprehensive  sentiment 
of  civic  gratitude,  patriotic  love,  or  human  admiration  ;  or  the  utterance  of  some  elementary 
principle  most  essential  in  the  constitution  of  true  virtue  ;  or  an  intuition,  communicated  in  ade- 
quate words,  of  the  sublimity  of  intellectual  power, — these  are  the  only  tribute  which  can  here  be 
paid — the  only  offering  that  upon  such  an  altar  would  not  be  unworthy  ! 

"What  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honoured  bones? 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  needst  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  ? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument, 
****** 

And  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die." 

Page  431. 

"And  s/>ircs  -whose  silent Jinger  points  to  heaven." 

An  instinctive  taste  teaches  men  to  build  their  churches  in  flat  countries  with  spire-steeples, 
which  as  they  cannot  be  referred  to  any  other  object,  point  as  with  silent  finger  to  the  sky  and 
stars,  and  sometimes,  when  they  reflect  the  brazen  light  of  a  rich  though  rainy  sunset,  appear  like 
a  pyramid  of  flame  burning  heavenward.  See  The  Friend,  by  S.  T.  Coleridge,  No.  14,  page 
223. 

Page  463. 

"  That  sycamore,  which  annually  holds 
Within  its  shade,  as  in  a  stately  tent." 

"  This  sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees  ; 
Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved." 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Page  470. 

"Perish  the  rosesand  the  /lowers  0/  kings." 

The  "  Transit  gloria  mundi"  is  finely  expressed  in  the  introduction  to  the  foundation  charters 
of  some  of  the  ancient  abbeys.  Some  expressions  here  used  are  taken  from  that  of  the  Abbey  of 
St.  Alary 's,  Furness,  the  translation  of  which  is  as  follows:— 


506 


THE  EXCURSION. 


"  Considering  every  dny  the  uncertainty  of  life  ;  that  the  roses  and  flowers  of  kings,  emperors, 
and  dukes,  and  the. crowns  and  palms  of  all  the  great,  wither  and  decay  ;  and  that  all  things,  with 
an  uninterrupted  course,  tend  to  dissolution  and  death  :  I  therefore,"  etc. 

Page  473- 

"  Earth  has  lent 
Her  waters,  air  her  breezes." 

In  treating  this  subject,  it  was  impossible  not  to  recollect,  with  gratitude,  the  pleasing  picture, 
■which,  in  his  poem  of  "The  Fleece,"  the  excellent  and  amiable  Dyer  has  given  of  the  influences 
of  manufacturing  industry  upon  the  face  of  tnis  island.  He  wrote  at  a  time  when  machinery  was 
first  beginning  to  be  introduced,  and  his  benevolent  heart  prompted  him  to  augur  from  it  nothing 
but  good.  Truth  has  compelled  me  to  dwell  upon  the  baneful  effects  arising  out  of  an  ill-regulated 
and  excessive  application  of  powers  so  admirable  in  themselves. 

Page  488. 

"  Binding  herself  by  statute." 

The  discovery  of  Dr.  Bell  affords  marvellous  facilities  for  carrying  this  into  effect,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  overrate  the  benefit  which  might  accrue  to  humanity  from  the  universal  application 
of  this  simple  engine  under  an  enlightened  and  conscientious  government. 


507 
YARROW     REVISITED, 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS, 

COMPOSED   (TWO  EXCEPTED)    DURING   A   TOUR   IN   SCOTLAND,    AND  ON   THE 
ENGLISH   BORDER,    IN   THE  AUTUMN   OF    1831. 


YARROW   REVISITED. 

I  The  following  Stanzas  are  a  memorial  of  a  day 
passed  with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  other 
Friends  visiting  the  Banks  of  the  Yarrow 
under  his  guidance,  immediately  before  his 
departure  from  Abbotsford,  for  Naples.] 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained, 

Or  seeks,  a  "  Winsome  Marrow," 
Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 

When  first  I  looked  on  Yarrow  ; 
Once  more,  by  Newark's  Castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  Warder, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  Thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border  ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet 
day, 

Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 

Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling  ; 
Rut  breezes  played,  andsunshinegleamed — 

The  forest  to  embolden  ; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation  ; 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

For  quiet  contemplation  : 
No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 
We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appeared,  the  Morn  of  youth, 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 
Life's  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve 

Her  Night  not  melancholy, 
Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united, 
Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

By  cordial  love  invited. 


And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  wood- 

And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing 
If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over, 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment  ! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment  ; 
Albeit  sickness  lingering  yet 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded  ; 
And  Care  waylay  their  steps — a  Sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott  !  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes  ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorento's  breezy  waves  ; 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking  ! 

O  !  while  they  minister  to  thee, 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 
May  Health  return  to  mellow  Age, 

With  Strength,  her  venturous  brother  ; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory  ! 

For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow  ; 
And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 

Where'er  thy  path  invite  thee, 
At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call, 

With  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 


508 


SONNETS. 


A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honour 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 

When  first  I  gazed  upon  her  ; 
Beheld  what  I  had  feared  to  see, 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 

And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 

That  mortals  do  or  suffer, 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self  ? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 

Nor  deem  that  localised  Romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears — made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections  : 
Ah,  no  !  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is — our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness,  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  center'd  ; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  enter'd, 
And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "  last  Minstrel,"  (not  the  last) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted  ! 

Flow  on  for  ever,  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 
Well   pleased    that    future   Bards   should 
chant 

For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty, 
To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 
And  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel, 

To  memory's  shadowy  moonshine  ! 


SONNETS. 
I. 

ON     THE     DEPARTURE    OF    SIR     WALTER 
SCOTT  FROM  ABBOTSFORD  FOR  NAPLES, 

A  trouble,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain, 
Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 
Engendered,   hangs  o'er    Eildon's    triple 

height  : 
Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 


For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their 
sight ; 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a 
blithe  strain, 

Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  Mourners  !  for  the 
might 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with 
him  goes  ; 

Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue 

Than  sceptred  King  or  laurelled  Con- 
queror knows, 

Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.    Be  true, 

Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea, 

Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope  ! 


A  PLACE  OF  BURIAL  IN  THE  SOUTH 
OF  SCOTLAND. 

Part  fenced  by  man,  part  by  a  ragged 

steep 
That  curbs  a  foaming  brook,  a  Grave-yard 

lies ; 
The  Hare's  best  couching-place  for  fearless 

sleep  ; 
Which  moonlit  Elves,  far  seen  by  credulous 

eyes, 
Enter  in  dance.     Of  Church,  or  Sabbath 

ties, 
No  vestige  now  remains  ;  yet  thither  creep 
Bereft  Ones,  and  in  lowly  anguish  weep 
Their  prayers  out  to  the  wind  and  naked 

skies. 
Proud  tomb  is  none  ;  but  rudely-sculptured 

knights, 
By  humble  choice  of  plain   old  times,  are 

seen 
Level  with  earth,  among  the  hillocks  green  : 
Unionnotsad,  when  sunny  daybreak  smites 
The     spangled    turf,     and     neighbouring 

thickets  ring 
With  jubilate  from  the  choirs  of  spring  ! 


ON   THE   SIGHT  OF  A   MANSE   IN  THE 
SOUTH   OF  SCOTLAND. 

SAY.yefar-travelled  clouds,  far-seeing  hills, 
Among    the    happiest-looking   Homes   of 

men 
Scatter'd  all   Britain  over,   through  deep 

glen, 
On  airy  upland,  and  by  forest  rills, 
And   o'er    wide  plains   whereon    the  sky 

distils 


dom* 


fi09 


Her  lark's  loved  warbAings  , 

meet  your  ken 
More  fit  to  animate  the  Poi  I  .  pen, 
Aught  that  more  surcK  by  its  aspect  fills 
Pure  miucls  with  sinless  envy,    than   the 

Abode 
Of  the  good  Priest  :  who,  faithful  through 

all  hours 
To  his  high  charge,  ami  truly  serving  God, 
Has  yet  a  heart  and  hand  for  trees  and 

flowers, 
Enjoys  the  walks  his  Predecessors  trod, 
Nor  covets  lineal  rights  in  lands  and  towers. 


COMPOSED   IN   ROSLIN  CHAPEL   DURING 
A  STORM. 

The  wind  is  now  thy  organist ; — a  clank 
(We  know  not  whence)  ministers  for  a  bell 
To  mark  some  change  of  service.     As  the 

swell 
Of  music  reached  its    height,   and  even 

when  sank 
The  notes,  in  prelude,  Roslin  !  to  a  blank 
Of  silence,  how  it  thrilled  thy  sumptuous 

roof, 
Pillars,  and  arches — not  in  vain  time-proof, 
Though  Christian  rites  be  wanting  !  From 

what  bank 
Came  those  live    herbs?   by  what  hand 

were  they  sown 
Where    dew  falls  not,    where  rain-drops 

seem  unknown  ? 
Yet  in  the  Temple  they  a  friendly  niche 
Share  with  their  sculptured  fellows,  that, 

green-grown, 
Copy  their  beauty  more   and  more,  and 

preach, 
Though  mute,  of  all  things  blending  into 


THE  TROSSACHS. 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn 

Pass, 
Rut  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn 

gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass,  - 
Withered  at  eve.    From  scenes  of  art  that 

chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watch- 
ful eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear 
than  glass 


Untouched,    unbreathed    upon.      Thrice 

happy  quest, 
If  from  a  gulden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
I  he  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
This  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest. 


The  Pibroch's  note,  discountenanced  or 

mute ; 
The  Roman  kilt,  degraded  to  a  toy 
Of  quaint  apparel  for  a  half-spoilt  boy  ; 
The   target    mouldering    like    ungathered 

fruit  ; 
The  smoking  steam-boat  eager  in  pursuit, 
As  eagerly  pursued  ;  the  umbrella  spread 
To    weather-fend    the    Celtic    herdsman's 

head- 
All  speak  of  manners  withering  to  the  root, 
And  some  old  honours,  too,  and  passions 

high: 
Then  may    we  ask,   though  pleased  that 

thought  should  range 
Among  the  conquests  of  civility, 
Survives  imagination — to  the  change 
Superior  ?     Help  to  virtue  does  it  give  ? 
If  not,  O  Mortals,  better  cease  to  live  ! 


COMPOSED   IN   THE   GLEN   OF  LOCH 
ETIVE. 

This  Land  of  Rainbows,  spanning  glens 

whose  walls, 
Roctbuilt,  are  hung  with  rainbow-coloured 

mists, 
Of  far-stretched  meres,  whose  salt  flood 

never  rests, 
Of  tuneful  caves  and  playful  waterfalls, 
Of    mountains    varying    momently    their 

crests — 
Proud  be  this  Land !  whose  poorest  huts 

are  halls 
Where  Fancy  entertains  becoming  guests  ; 
While  native  song  the  heroic  Past  recalls. 
Thus,  in  the  net  of  her  own  wishes  caught, 
The  Muse  exclaimed  ;  but  Story  now  must 

hide 
Her  trophies,  Fancy  crouch ;—  the  course 

of  pride 
Has  been  diverted,  other  lessons  taught, 
That  make  the  Patriot-spirit  bow  her  head 
Where  the  all-conquering  Roman  feared  to 

tread. 


510 


SONNETS. 


'  Svvoln  with  chill  rains,  nor  ever  cast  a  look 


COMPOSED   AT    DUNOLLIE    CASTLE,    IN    THE 
BAY    OF   OBAN. 

Dishonoured  Rock  and  Ruin !  that,  bylaw- 
Tyrannic,  keep  the  Bird  of  Jove  embarred 
Like  a  lone  criminal  whose  life  is  spared. 
Vexed  is  he,  and  screams  aloud.     The  last 

I  saw  [awe 

Was  on  the  wing ;  stooping,  he  struck  with 
Man,  bird,  and  beast;  then,  with  a  oonsort 

paired,  [guard, 

From  a  bold  headland,  their  loved  aery's 
Flew  high  above  Atlantic  waves,  to  draw 
Light  from  the  fountain  of  the  setting  sun. 
Such  was  this  Prisoner  once  ;  and,  when 

his  plumes 
The  sea-blast  ruffles  as  the  storm  comes  on, 
In  spirit,  for  a  moment,  he  resumes 
His  rank  'mong  freebom  creatures  that  live 

free, 
His  power,  his  beauty,  and  his  majesty. 


IN   THE   SOUND   OF   MULL. 

Tradition,  be  thou  mute !  Oblivion,  throw 
Thy  veil,  in  mercy,  o'er  the  records  hung 
Round  strath  and  mountain,  stamped  by 

the  ancient  tongue 
On  rock  and  ruin  darkening  as  we  go, — 
Spots  where  a  word,  ghost-like,  survives  to 

show  [have  sprung; 

What  crimes  from  hate,  or  desperate  love, 
From    honour    misconceived,    or    fancied 

wrong, 
What    feuds,    not    quenched   but   fed   by 

mutual  woe  : 
Vet,  though  a  wild  vindictive  Race,  untamed 
By  civil  arts  and  labours  of  the  pen, 
Could  gentleness  be  scorned  by  these  fierce 

Men, 
Who,   to  spread  wide  the  reverence  that 

they  claimed 
For  patriarchal  occupations,  named 
Yon  towering  Peaks,  "  Shepherds  of  Etive 

Glen?"* 

x. 

AT   TYNDRUM. 

Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook, 
And  all  that  Greece  and  Italy  have  sung 
Of  Swains  reposing  myrtle  groves  among  ! 
Otirs  couch  on  naked  rocks,  will  cross  a 
brook 

*  In  Gaelic,  Buachaill  Eite. 


This  way  or  that,  or  give  it  even  a  thought 
More  than  by  smoothest  pathway  may  be 

brought 
Into  a  vacant  mind.     Can  written  book 
Teach  what  they  learn  ?   Up,  hardy  Moun- 
taineer ! 
And  guide  the  Bard,  ambitious  to  be  one 
Of  Nature's  privy  council,  as  thou  art, 
On  cloud-sequestered  heights,  that  see  and 

hear 
To  what  dread  Power  He  delegates  his  part 
On   earth,  who  works   in  the  heaven   of 
heavens,  alone. 

XI. 

THE  EARL  OF  BREADALBANE'S  RUINED 
MANSION,  AND  FAMILY  BURIAL-PLACE, 
NEAR  KILLIN. 

Well  sang  the  Bard  who  called  the  Grave, 

in  strains 
Thoughtful  and  sad,  the  ' '  Narrow  House. " 

No  style 
Of  fond  sepulchral  flattery  can  beguile 
Grief  of  her  sting  ;  nor  cheat,  where  he 

detains 
The  sleeping  dust,  stern  Death:  how  recon- 
cile 
With  truth,   or  with   each  other,   decked 

Remains 
Of  a  once  warm  Abode,  and  that  new  Pile, 
For  the  departed,  built  with  curious  pains 
And  mausolean  pomp?  Yet  here  they  stand 
Together, — 'mid    trim    walks    and    artful 

bowers, 
To  be  looked  down  upon  by  ancient  hills, 
That,  for  the  living  and  the  dead,  demand 
And  prompt  a  harmony  of  genuine  powers; 
Concord  that  elevates  the  mind,  and  stills. 

XII. 

REST  AND  BE  THANKFUL,  AT  THE  HEAD 
OF  GLENCROE. 

Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious 

walk, 
Who,  that  has  gained  at  length  the  wished- 

for  Height, 
This  brief  this  simple   way-side  call  can 

slight, 
And  rest  not  thankful  ?    Whether  cheered 

by  talk 
With  some  loved  Friend,  or  by  the  unseen 

Hawk 
Whistling  to  clouds  and  sky-born  streams, 

that  shine 
At  the  sun's  outbreak,  as  with  light  divine, 


SOKNfiTS. 


511 


Ere  they  descend  to  nourish  root  rind  stalk 
Of  valley  flowers.     Nor,  while  the  limbs 

repose, 
Will  we  forget  that,  as  the  Fowl  can  keep 
Absolute  stillness,  poised  aloft  in  air, 
And   Fishes  front,   unmoved,  the  torrent's 

sweep, — 
So   may  the  Soul,    through   powers   that 

Faith  bestows, 
Win  rest,  and  ease,  and  peace,  with  bliss 

that  Angels  share. 


HIGHLAND   HUT. 

See  what  gay  wild  flowers  deck  this  earth- 
built  Cot, 
Whose  smoke,   forth-issuing  whence   and 

how  it  may, 
Shines  in  the  greeting  of  the  Sun's  first  ray 
Like  wreaths  of  vapour  without  stain  or  blot. 
The  limpid  mountain  rill  avoids  it  not  ; 
And  why  shouldst  thou  ?    If  rightly  trained 

and  bred, 
Humanity  is  humble, — finds  no  spot 
Which  her  Heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to 

tread. 
The  walls  are  cracked,  sunk  is  the  flowery 

roof, 
Undressed  the  pathway  leading  to  the  door; 
But  love,  as  Nature  loves,  the  lonely  Poor ; 
Search,  for  their  worth,  some  gentle  heart 

wrong-proof, 
Meek,   patient,  kind,   and,  were  its  trials 

fewer, 
Belike  less  happy. — Stand  no  more  aloof  ! 


THE    BROWNIE. 

(Upon  a  small  island  not  far  from  the  head  o' 
Loch  Lomond,  are  some  remains  of  an  ancient 
building,  which  was  for  several  years  the 
abode  of  a  solitary  Individual,  one  of  the  last 
survivors  of  the  Clan  of  Macfarlane,  once 
powerful  in  that  neighbourhood.  Passing 
along  the  shore  opposite  this  island  in  the 
year  1S14,  the  Author  learned  these  particu- 
lars, and  that  this  person  then  living  there  had 
acquired  the  appellation  of  "  The  Brownie." 
The  following  Sonnet  is  a  sequel  to  the 
Brownie's  Cell,  p.  156.] 

•'How  disappeared  he?"     Ask  the  newt 

and  toad; 
Ask  of  his  fellow  men,  and  they  will  tell 
How  he  was  found,  cold  as  an  icicle, 
Under  an  arch  of  that  forlorn  abode  ; 


Where  he,  unpropp'd,  and  by  the  gather- 
ing flood 
Qf  years   hemin'd   round,  had  dwelt,  pre- 
pared to  try 
Privation's  worst  extremities,  and  die 
With  ix)  one  near  save  the  omnipresent  God. 
Verily  so  to  live  was  an  awful  choice — 
A  choice  that  wears  the  aspect  of  a  doom  ; 
But  in  the  mould  of  mercy  all  is  cast 
For  Souls  familiar  with  the  eternal  Voice  ; 
And  this  forgotten  Taper  to  the  last 
Drove  from  itself,  we  trust,  all  high  tfulgloom. 


TO  THE   PLANET   VENUS,    AN   EVENING 
STAR. 

COMPOSED   AT    LOCH    LOMOND. 

THOUGH  joy  attend  thee  orient  at  the  birth 
Of  dawn,  it  cheers  the  lofty  spirit  most 
To  watch  thy  course  when  Day-light,  fled 

from  earth, 
In  the  grey  sky  hath  left  his  lingering  ghost, 
Perplexed  as  if  between  a  splendour  lost 
And  splendour  slowly  mustering.  Since  the 

Sun, 
The  absolute,  the  world-absorbing  One, 
Relinquished  half  his  empire  to  the  host 
Fmboldened  by  thy  guidance,  holy  Star, 
Holy  as  princely,  who  that  looks  on  thee 
Touching,  as  now,  in  thy  humility 
The  mountain  borders  of  this  seat  of  care, 
Can  question  that  thycountenance  is  bright, 
Celestial  Power,  as  much  with  love  as  light? 


EOTHWELI,   CASTLE. 

Immured  in  Bothwell's  Towers,  at  times 

the  Brave 
(So  beautiful  is  Clyde)  forgot  to  mourn 
The  liberty  they  lost  at  Bannockbourn. 
Once  on  those  steeps  /  roamed  at  large,  and 

have 
In  mind  the  landscape,  as  if  still  in  sight  ; 
The  river  glides,  the  woods  before  me  wave; 
But,  by  occasion  tempted,  now  I  crave 
Needless  renewal  of  an  old  delight. 
Better  to  thank  a  dear  and  long-past  day 
For  joy  its  sunny  hours  were  free  to  give 
Than  blame  the  present,  that  ourwish  hath 

crost. 
Memory,   like   Sleep,  hath   powers  which 

dreams  obey, 
Dreams,  vivid  dreams,  that  are  not  fugitive : 
How  little  that  she  cherishes  is  lost  ! 


512 


SONNETS. 


PICTURE  OF   DANIEL   IN   THE  LION'S   DEN 
AT   HAMILTON    PALACE. 

Amid  a  fertile  region  green  with  wood 
And  fresh  with  rivers,  well  doth  it  become 
The  Ducal  Owner,  in  his  Palace-home 
To  naturalise  this  tawny  Lion  brood  ; 
Children  of  Art,  that  claim  strange  brother- 
hood, 
Couched  in  their  Den,  with  those  that  roam 

at  large 
Over  the  burning  wilderness,  and  charge 
Thewindwith  terrorwhile  they  roarforfood. 
But  these  are  satiate,  and  a  stillness  drear 
Calls  into  life  a  more  enduring  fear ; 
Vet  is  the  Prophet  calm,  nor  would  the  cave 
Daunt  him — if  his  Companions,  now  be- 

drowsed 
Pawning  and  listless,  were  by  hunger  roused : 
Man  placed  him  here,  and  God,  he  knows, 
can  save. 


THE  AVON  [a  feeder  of  the  Annan). 

Avon — a  precious,  an  immortal  name  ! 
Yet  is  it  one  that  other  Rivulets  bear 
Like  this  unheard-of,  and  their  channels  wear 
Like  this  contented,  though  unknown  to 

Fame : 
For  great  and  sacred  is  the  modest  claim 
Of  streams  to  Nature's  love,  where'er  they 

flow ; 
And  ne'er  did  genius  slight  them,  as  they  go, 
Tree,  flower,  and  green  herb,  feeding  with- 
out blame. 
But  Praise  can  waste  her  voice  on  work  of 

tears, 
Anguish,  and  death  :  full  oft  where  inno- 
cent blood 
Has  mixed  its  current  with  the  limpid  flood, 
Her  heaven-offending  trophies  Glory  rears  ; 
Never  for  like  distinction  may  the  good 
Shrink  from  thy  name,  pure  Rill,  with  un- 
pleased  ears  ! 


SUGGESTED     BY   A   VIEW   FROM    AN     EMI- 
NENCE  IN    INGLEWOOD    FOREST. 

The  forest  huge  of  ancient  Caledon 
Is  but  a  name,  nor  more  is  Inglewood, 
That  swept  from  hill  to  hill,  from  flood  to 

flood  : 
On  her  last   thorn  the  nightly  Moon  has 

shone ; 
Yet  still,  though   unappropriate  Wild   be 

none, 


Fair  parks  spread  wide  where  Adam  Bei' 

might  deign 
With  Clym  o'  the  Clough,  were  they  alive 

again, 
To  kill  for  merry  feast  their  venison. 
Nor  wants  the  holy  Abbot's  gliding  Shade 
His  Church  with  monumental  wreck  be- 

strown  ; 
The  feudal  Warrior-chief,  a  Ghost  unlaid, 
Hath  still  his  Castle,  though  a  Skeleton, 
That  he  may  watch  by  night,  and  lessons  con 
Of  Power  that  perishes,  and   Rights  that 

fade. 


HART'S-HORN  TREE,  NEAR  PENRITH. 

Here  stood  an  Oak,  that  long  had  borne 

affixed 
To  his  huge  trunk,  or,  with  more  subtle  art, 
Among    its  withering   topmost    branches 

mixed, 
The  palmy  antlers  of  a  hunted  Hart, 
Whom  the  dog  Hercules  pursued — his  part 
Each  desperately  sustaining,  till  at  last 
Both  sank  and  died,  the  life-veins  of  the 

chased 
And  chaser  bursting    here  with  one   dire 

smart. 
Mutual  the  Victory,  mutual  the  Defeat ! 
High   was   the  trophy  hung  with  pitiless 

pride  ; 
Say,  rather,  with  that  generous  sympathy 
That  wants  not,  even  in  rudest  breasts,  a 

seat ; 
And,  for  this  feeling's  sake,  let  no  one  chide 
Verse  that  would  guard  thy  memory,  Hart's- 

horn  Tree! 


COUNTESS'S   PILLAR. 

[On  the  roadside  between  Penrith  and  Appleby, 
there  stands  a  pillar  with  the  following  in- 
scription : — 

"  This  pillar  was  erected,  in  the  year  1656, 
by  Anne  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke,  &c, 
for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting  with  her 
pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess  Dowager 
of  Cumberland,  on  the  2nd  of  April,  1616  ;  in 
memory  whereof  she  hath  left  an  annuity  of 
4/.  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor  of  the  parish 
of  Brougham,  every  2nd  day  of  April  for  ever, 
upon  the  stone  table  placed  hard  by.  Laus 
Deo  !"] 

While  the  Poor  gather  round,  till  the  end 

of  time 
May  this  bright  flower  of  Charity  display 
Its  bloom,  unfolding  at  the  appointed  day  ; 


THE  HIGHLAND  BROACH. 


K13 


Flower  than  the  loveliest  of  the  vernal  prime 
livelier — transplanted  from  heaven's  purest 

clime ! 
"Charity  never  faileth  :"  on  that  creed, 
More  than  on  written  testament  or  deed, 
The  pious  Lady  built  with  hope  sublime. 
Alms  on  this  stone  to  be  dealt  out,  for  ever! 
"  Laus  Deo."  Many  a  Stranger  passing  by 
Has  with  that  parting  mixed  a  filial  sigh, 
Blest  its  humane  Memorial's  fond  endea- 
vour ; 
And,  fastening  on  those  lines  an  eye  tear- 
glazed, 
Has  ended,  though  no  Clerk,  with  "God 
be  praised  !" 

xxi  t. 

ROMAN    ANTIQUITIES. 
(PROM  THE  ROMAN   STATION  AT  OLD  TENRITH.) 

How  profitless  the  relics  that  we  cull, 
Troubling  the  last  holds  of  ambitious  Rome, 
Unless  they  chasten  fancies  that  presume 
Too  high,  or  idle  agitations  lull ! 
Of  the  world's  flatteries  if  the  brain  be  full, 
To  have  no  seat  for  thought  were  better 

doom, 
Like  this  old  helmet,  or  the  eyeless  skull 
Of  him  who  gloried  in  its  nodding  plume. 
Heaven  out  of  view,  our  wishes  what  are 

they  ? 
Our  fond  regrets,  insatiate  in  their  grasp? 
The  Sage's  theory?  the  Poet's  lay? 
Mere  Fibulae  without  a  robe  to  clasp ; 
Obsolete  lamps,  whose  light  no  time  recalls ; 
Urns  without  ashes,  tearless  lacrymals ! 


APOLOGY. 

No  more  :  the  end  is  sudden  an^,  aorupt, 
Abrupt — as  without  preconceived  design 
Was  the  beginning,  yet  the  several  Lays 
Have  moved  in  order,  to  each  other  bound 
By  a  continuous  and  acknowledged  tie 
Though   unapparent,     like   those    Shapes 

distinct 
That  vet  survive  cnsculptured  on  the  walls 

lace,  or  of  Temple,  'mid  the  wreck 
Of  famed  Persepolis  ;  each  following  each, 
As  might  beseem  a  stately  embassy, 
In  set  array  ;  these  bearing  in  their  hands 
Ensign  of  civil  power,  weapon  of  war, 
Or  gift,  to  be  presented  at  the  Throne 
Of  the  Great  King  ;  and  others,  as  they  go 
In  priestly  vest,  with  holy  offerings  charged, 
[V  leading  victims  drest  for  sacrifice, 


Nor  will  the  Muse  condemn,  or  trout  with 

scorn 
Our  ministration,  humble  but  sincere, 
That  from  a  threshold  loved  by  every  Muse 
Its    impulse   took — that   sorrow-stricken 

door, 
Whence,   as  a  current  from  its  fountain- 
head, 
Our  thoughts  have  issued,  and  our  feelings 

flowed, 
Receiving,  willingly  or  not,  fresh  strength 
From  kmdred  sources  ;  while  around  us 

sighed 
(Life's  three  first  seasons  having   passed 

away) 
Leaf-scattering     winds,      and     hoar-frost 

sprinklings  fell, 
Foretaste    of    winter,    on    the    moorland 

heights  ; 
And  ever}'  day  brought  with  it  tidings  new 
Of  rash   change,   ominous  for  the  public 

weal. 
Hence,  if  dejection  have  too  oft  encroached 
Upon  that  sweet  and  tender  melancholy 
Which     may     itself    be     cherished    and 

caressed 
More  than  enough,  a  fault  so  natural, 
Even  with  the  young  the  hopeful  or  the  gay, 
For  prompt  forgiveness  will  not  sue  in  vain. 


THE  HIGHLAND  BROACH. 

If  to  Tradition  faith  be  due, 
And  echoes  from  old  verse  speak  true, 
Ere  the  meek  Saint,  Columba,  bore 
Glad  tidings  to  Iona's  shore, 
No  common  light  of  nature  blessed 
The  mountain  region  of  the  west, 
A  land  where  gentle  manners  ruled 
O'er  men  in  dauntless  virtues  schooled, 
That  raised,  for  centuries,  a  bar 
Impervious  to  the  tide  of  war  ; 
Yet  peaceful  Arts  did  entrance  gain 
Where  haughty  Force  had  striven  in  vain  , 
And,  'mid  the  works  of  skilful  hands, 
By  wanderers  brought  from  foreign  lands 
And  various  climes,  was  not  unknown 
The  clasp  that  fixed  the  Roman  Gown  ; 
The  Fibula,  whose  shape,  I  ween, 
Still  in  the  Highland  Broach  is  seen, 
The  silver  Broach  of  massy  frame, 
Worn  at  the  breast  of  some  grave  Dame 
On  road  or  path,  or  at  the  door 
Of  fern-thatched  Hut  on  heathy  moor  : 
But  delicate  of  yore  its  mould, 
And  the  material  finest  gold  ; 


514 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MATT). 


As  might  beseem  the  fairest  Fair, 
Whether  she  graced  a  royal  chair, 
Or  shed,  within  a  vaulted  Hall, 
No  fancied  lustre  on  the  wall 
Where  shields  of  mighty  Heroes  hung, 
While  Fingal  heard  what  Ossian  sung. 

The  heroic  Age  expired — it  slept 
Deep  in  its  tomb  : — the  bramble  crept 
O'er  Fingal's  hearth  ;  the  grassy  sod 
Grew  on  the  floors  his  Sons  had  trod  : 
Malvina  !  where  art  thou  ?   Their  state 
The  noblest-born  must  abdicate, 
The  fairest,  while  with  fire  and  sword 
Come  Spoilers — horde  impelling  horde, 
Must  walk  the  sorrowing  mountains,  drest 
By  ruder  hands  in  homelier  vest. 
Yet  still  the  female  bosom  lent, 
And  loved  to  borrow,  ornament  ; 
Still  was  its  inner  world  a  place 
Reached  by  the  dews  of  heavenly  grace  ; 
Still  pity  to  this  last  retreat 
Clove  fondly  ;  to  his  favourite  seat 
Love  wound  his  way  by  soft  approach, 
Peneath  a  massier  Highland  Broach. 

When  alternations  came  of  rage 

Yet  fiercer,  in  a  darker  age  ; 

\nd  feuds,  where,  clan  encountering  clan, 

The  weaker  perished  to  a  man  ; 

For  maid  and  mother,  when  despair 

Might  else  have  triumphed,  baffling  prayer, 

One  small  possession  lacked  not  power, 

Provided  in  a  calmer  hour, 

To  meet  such  need  as  might  befall — 

Roof,  raiment,  bread,  or  burial : 

For  woman,  even  of  tears  bereft, 

The  hidden  silver  Broach  was  left. 

As  generations  come  and  go, 
Their  arts,  their  customs,  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Fate,  fortune,  sweep  strong  powers  away, 
And  feeble,  of  themselves,  decay  ; 
What  poor  abodes  the  heir-loom  hide, 
In  which  the  castle  once  took  pride  ! 
Tokens,  once  kept  as  boasted  wealth, 
If  saved  at  all,  are  saved  by  stealth. 
Lo  !  ships,  from  seas  by  nature  barred, 
Mount  along  ways  by  man  prepared  ; 
And  in  far-stretching  vales,  whose  streams 
Seek  other  seas,  their  canvas  gleams. 
Lo  !  busy  towns  spring  up,  on  coasts 
Thronged  yesterday  by  airy  ghosts  ; 
Soon,  like  a  lingering  star  forlorn 
Among  the  novelties  of  morn, 
While  young  delights  on  old  encroach, 
Will  vanish  the  last  Highland  Broach. 


!  But  when,  from  out  their  viewless  bed, 
Like  vapours,  years  have  rolled  and  spread 
And  this  poor  verse,  and  worthier  lays, 
Shall  yield  no  light  of  love  or  praise, 
Then,  by  the  spade,  or  cleaving  plough, 
Or  torrent  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Or  whirlwind,  reckless  what  his  might 
Entombs,  or  forces  into  light, 
Blind  Chance,  a  volunteer  ally, 
That  oft  befriends  Antiquity, 
And  clears  Oblivion  from  reproach, 
May  render  back  the  Highland  Broach. 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MAID; 


THE   ROMANCE  OF   THE  WATER   LILY. 

[For  the  names  and  persons  in  the  following 
poem,  see  the  "  History  of  the  renowned 
Prince  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round 
Table  ;"  for  the  rest  the  Author  is  answerable  ; 
only  it  may  be  proper  to  add,  that  the  Lotus, 
with  the  bust  of  the  goddess  appearing  to  rise 
out  of  the  full-blown  flower,  was  suggested 
by  the  beautiful  work  of  ancient  art,  once  in- 
cluded among  the  Townley  Marbles,  and  now 
in  the  British  Museum.] 

While  Merlin  paced  the  Cornish  sands, 
Forth-looking  toward  the  Rocks  of  Scilly, 
The  pleased  Enchanter  was  aware 
Of  a  bright  Ship  that  seemed  to  hang  in 

air, 
Yet  was  she  work  of  mortal  hands, 
And  took    from    men    her  name — The 

Water  Lily. 


Such  was  the  wind,  that  landward  blew  ; 
And,  as  the  Moon,  o'er  some  dark  hill 

ascendant, 
Grows  from  a  little  edge  of  light 
To  a  full  orb,  this  Pinnace  bright 
Became,  as  nearer  to  the  Coast  she  drew, 
More    glorious,    with     spread     sail    and 
streaming  pendant. 

Upon  this  winged  Shape  so  fair 
Sage  Merlin  gazed  with  admiration  : 
Her  lineaments,  thought  he,  surpass 
Aught  that  was   ever  shown  in  magic 

glass  ; 
Was  ever  built  with  subtle  care  ; 
Or,  at  a  touch,   set  forth  with  wondrous 

"ransformation. 


THE  EQYVTTAN  MAID. 


515 


Now,  though  a  Mechanist,  whose  skill 
Shames  the  degenerate  grasp  of  modern 

science, 
Grave  Merlin  (and  belike  the  more 
For  practising  occult  and  perilous  lore) 
Was  subject  to  a  freakish  will 
That    sapped   good    thoughts,    or  scared 
them  with  defiance. 

Provoked  to  envious  spleen,  he  cast 
An   altered    look   upon   the   advancing 

Stranger 
Whom  he  had  hailed  with  joy,  and  cried, 
"  My  Art  shall  help  to  tame  her  pride — " 
Anon  the  breeze  became  a  blast, 
And  the  waves  rose,   and  sky  portended 

danger. 

With  thrilling  word,  and  potent  sign 
Traced   on   the    beach,    his    work    the 

Sorcerer  urges  ; 
The  clouds  in  blacker  clouds  are  lost, 
Like  spiteful  Fiends  that  vanish,  crossed 
By  Fiends  of  aspect  more  malign  ; 
And    the    winds    roused   the    Deep    with 

fiercer  scourges. 

But  worthy  of  the  name  she  bore 
Was  this  Sea-flower,  this  buoyant  Galley  ; 
Supreme  in  loveliness  and  grace 
Of  motion,  whether  in  the  embrace 
Of  trusty  anchorage,  or  scudding  o'er 
llie  main  flood  roughened  into  nill  and 
valley. 

Behold,  how  wantonly  she  laves 
Her  sides,  the  Wizard's  craft  confound- 
ing ; 
Like  something  out  of  Ocean  sprung 
To  be  for  ever  fresh  and  young, 
Breasts  the  sea-flashes,  and  huge  waves 
Top-gallant    high,    rebounding     and    re- 
bounding ! 

But  Ocean  under  magic  heaves, 
And  cannot  spare  the  Thing  he  cherished  : 
Ah  !  what  avails  that  She  was  fair, 
Luminous,  blithe,  and  debonair? 
The  storm  has  stripped  her  of  her  leaves  ; 
The    Lily   floats   no    longer  !  —  She  hath 
perished. 

Grieve  for  her, — She  deserves  no  less  ; 
So  like,  yet  so  unlike,  a  living  Creature  ! 
No  heart  had  she,  no  busy  brain  ; 
Though  loved,  she  could  not  love  again  ; 
Though  pitied,  feel  her  own  distress  ; 
Nor  aught  that   troubles  us,  the  fools  of 
Nature. 


Yet  is  there  cause  for  gushing  tears  ; 
So  richly  was  this  Galley  laden  ; 
A  fairer  than  Herself  she  bore, 
And,  in  her  struggles,  cast  ashore  ; 
A  lovely  One,  who  nothing  hears 
Of  wind  or  wave — a  meek  and  guileless 
Maiden. 

Into  a  cave  had  Merlin  fled 

From  mischief,  caused  by  spells  himself 

had  muttered; 
And,  while  repentant  all  too  late, 
In  moody  posture  there  he  sate, 
He  heard  a  voice,  and  saw,  with  half- 
raised  head, 
A  Visitant   by  whom   these   words  were 
uttered : 

"  On  Christian  service  this  frail  Bark 
Sailed"  (hear  me,  Merlin  !)  "  under  high 

protection, 
Though  on  her  prow  a  sign  of  heathen 

power 
Was  carved — a  Goddess  with  a  Lily  flower, 
The  old  Egyptian's  emblematic  mark 
Of  joy  immortal  and  of  pure  affection. 

"  Her  course  was  for  the  British  strand, 
Her  freight  it  was  a  Damsel  peerless  ; 
God  reigns  above,  and  Spirits  strong 
May  gather  to  avenge  this  wrong 
Done  to  the  Princess,  and  her  Land 
Which  she  in  duty  left,   though  sad  not 
cheerless. 

"  And  to  Caerleon's  loftiest  tower 
Soon  will  the  Knights  of  Arthur's  Table 
A  cry  of  lamentation  send  ; 
And  all  will  weep  who  there  attend, 
To  grace  that  Stranger's  bridal  hour, 
For  whom  the  sea  was  made  unnavigable. 

"  Shame  !  should  a  Child  of  Royal  Line 
Die  through  the  blindness  of  thy  malice:" 
Thus  to  the  Necromancer  spake 
Nina,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
A  gentle  Sorceress,  and  benign, 
Who   ne'er   embittered    any  good    man's 
chalice. 

"What    boots,"     continued    she,    "to 

mourn  ? 
To  expiate  thy  sin  endeavour  ! 
From  the  bleak  isle  where  she  is  laid, 
Fetched  by  our  art,  the  Egyptian  Maid 
May  yet  to  Arthur's  court  be  borne 
Cold  as  she  is,  ere  life  be  fled  for  ever. 


516 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MAID. 


"  My  pearly  Boat,  a  shining  Light, 
That  brought  me  down  that  sunless  river, 
Will  bear  me  on  from  wave  to  wave, 
And  back  with  ber  to  this  sea-cave ; 
Then  Merlin  !  for  a  rapid  flight 
Through  air  to  thee  my  charge  will  I  deliver. 

"  The  very  swiftest  of  thy  Cars 
Must,  when  my  part  is  done,  be  ready  ; 
Meanwhile,  for  further  guidance,  look 
Into  thy  own  prophetic  book  ; 
And,  if  that  fail,  consult  the  Stars 
To  learn  thy  course  ;  farewell !  be  prompt 
and  steady." 

This  scarcely  spoken,  she  again 
Was  seated  in  her  gleaming  Shallop, 
That,  o'er  the  yet-distempered  Deep, 
Pursued  its  way  with  bird-like  sweep, 
Or  like  a  steed,  without  a  rein, 
Urged  o'er  the  wilderness  in  sportive  gallop. 

Soon  did  the  gentle  Nina  reach 
That  Isle  without  a  house  or  haven  ; 
Landing,  she  found  not  what  she  sought, 
Nor  saw  of  wreck  or  ruin  aught 
But  a  carved  Lotus  cast  upon  the  shore 
By  the  fierce  waves,   a  flower  in  marble 
graven. 

Sad  relique,  but  how  fair  the  while  ! 
For  gently  each  from  each  retreating 
With  backward  curve,  the  leaves  revealed 
The  bosom  half,  and  half  concealed, 
Of  a  Divinity,  that  seemed  to  smile 
On  Nina  as  she  passed,  with  hopeful  greet- 


No  quest  was  hers  of  vague  desire, 
Of  tortured  hope  and  purpose  shaken  ; 
Following  the  margin  of  a  bay, 
She  spied  the  lonely  Cast-away, 
Unmarred,  unstripped  of  her  attire, 
But  with  closed  eyes, — of  breath  and  bloom 
forsaken. 

Then  Nina,  stooping  down,  embraced, 
With  tenderness  and  mild  emotion, 
The  Damsel,  in  that  trance  embound  ; 
And,  while  she  raised  her  from  the  ground, 
And  in  the  pearly  shallop  placed, 
Sleep  fell  upon  the  air,  and  stilled  the  ocean. 

The  turmoil  hushed,  celestial  springs 
Of  music  opened,  and    there  came  a 

blending 
Of  fragrance,  underived  from  earth, 
With  gleams  that  owed  not  to  the  Sun  ] 

their  birth, 


And  that  soft  rustling  of  invisible  wings 
Which  Angels  make,  on  works  of  love  de- 
scending. 

And  Nina  heard  a  sweeter  voice 

Than  if  the  Goddess  of  the  Flower  had 

spoken  : 
"Thou  hast  achieved,  fair  Dame  !  what 

none 
Less  pure  in  spirit  could  have  done  ; 
Go,  in  thy  enterprise  rejoice  ! 
Air,  earth,  sea,  sky,  and  heaven,  success 

betoken." 

So  cheered  she  left  that  Island  bleak, 
A  bare  rock  of  the  Scilly  cluster  ; 
And,  as  they  traversed  the  smooth  brine, 
The  self-illumined  Brigantine 
Shed,  on  the  Slumberer's  cold  wan  cheek 
And  pallid  brow,  a  melancholy  lustre. 

Fleet  was  their  course,  and  when  they 

came 
To  the  dim  cavern,  whence  the  river 
Issued  into  the  salt-sea  flood, 
Merlin,  as  fixed  in  thought  he  stood, 
Was  thus  accosted  by  the  Dame  : 
' '  Behold  to  thee  my  Charge  I  now  deliver 

"  But  where  attends  thychariot — where?" 
Quoth  Merlin,  "  Even  as  I  was  bidden, 
So  have  I  done ;  as  trusty  as  thy  barge 
My   vehicle   shall    prove  —  O    precious 

Charge  ! 
If  this  be  sleep,  how  soft !  if  death,  how 

fair! 
Much  have  my  books  disclosed,   but  the 

end  is  hidden." 

He  spake,  and  gliding  into  view 

Forth  from  the  grotto's  dimmest  chamber 

Came  two  mute  Swans,  whose  plumes 

of  dusky  white 
Changed,  as  the  pair  approached  the  light. 
Drawing  an  ebon  car,  their  hue 
(Like  clouds  of  sunset)  into  lucid  amber. 

Once  more  did  gentle  Nina  lift 
The  Princess,  passive  to  all  changes  : 
The  car  received  her  ;  then  up-went 
Into  the  ethereal  element 
The  Birds  with  progress  smooth  and  swif! 
As  thought,  when  through  bright  regions 
memory  ranges. 

Sage  Merlin,  at  the  Slumberer's  side, 
Instructs  the  Swans  their  way  to  measure; 
And  soon  Caerleon's  towers  appeared, 
And  notes  of  minstrelsy  were  heard 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MATD. 


317 


From  rich  pavilions  spreading  wide, 
For  some  high  day  of  long-expected  plea- 
sure. 

Awe-stricken  stood  both   Knights  and 

Dames 
Ere  on  firm  ground  the  car  alighted  : 
Eftsoons  astonishment  was  past, 
For  in  that  face  they  saw  the  last 
Last  lingering  look  of  clay,  that  tames 
All  pride,  by  which  all  happiness  is  blighted. 

Said  Merlin,  "  Mighty  King,  fair  Lords, 
Away  with  feast  and  tilt  and  tourney  ! 
Ye  saw,  throughout  this  Royal  House, 
Ye  heard,  a  rocking  marvellous 
Of  turrets,  and  a  clash  of  swords 
Self-shaken,  as  I  closed  my  airy  journey. 

"  Lo  !  by  a  destiny  well  known 
To  mortals,  joy  is  turned  to  sorrow  ; 
This  is  the  wished-for  Bride,  the  Maid 
Of  Egypt,  from  a  rock  conveyed 
Where  she  byshipwreckhad  been  thrown; 
111  sight  !    but  grief   may  vanish  ere  the 
morrow." 

' '  Though  vast  thy  power,  thy  words  are 
weak," 

Exclaimed  the  King,  "  a  mockery  hateful ; 

Dutiful  Child  !  her  lot  how  hard  t 

Is  this  her  piety's  reward? 

Those  watery  locks,  that  bloodless  cheek! 
O  winds  without  remorse !  O  shore  ungrate- 
ful! 

"  Rich  robes  are  fretted  by  the  moth  ; 
Tcwers,  temples,  fallbystroke  of  thunder; 
Will  that,  or  deeper  thoughts,  abate 
A  Father's  sorrow  for  her  fate? 
He  will  repent  him  of  his  troth  ; 
His  brain  will  burn,  his  stout  heart  split 
asunder. 

"  Alas  !  and  I  have  caused  this  woe  ; 
For,   when  my  prowess   from  invading 

Neighbours 
Had  freed  his  Realm,  he  plighted  word 
That  he  would  turn  to  Christ  our  Lord, 
And  his   dear  Daughter   on   a    Knight 
bestow 
Whom  I  should  choose  for  love  and  match- 
less labours. 

"  Her  birth  was  heathen,  but  a  fence 
Of  holy  Angels  round  her  hovered  ; 
A  Lady  added  to  my  court 
So  fair,  of  such  divine  report 
And  worship,  seemed  a  recompence 
For  fifty  kingdoms  by  my  sword  recovered. 


"  Ask  not  for  whom,  O  champions  true  ! 
She  was  reserved  by  me  her  life's  betrayer; 
She  who  was  meant  to  be  a  bride 
Is  now  a  corse  ;  then  put  aside 
Vain  thoughts,  and  speed  ye,  with  ob- 
servance due 
Of  Christian  rites,  in  Christian  ground  to 
lay  her." 

"  The  tomb,  "said  Merlin,  "maynotclose 
Upon  her  yet,  earth  hide  her  beauty  ; 
Not  froward  to  thy  sovereign  will 
Esteem  me,  Liege  !  if  I,  whose  skill 
Wafted  her  hither,  interpose 
To  check  this  pious  haste  of  erring  duty. 

"  My  books  command  me  to  lay  bare 
The  secret  thou  art  bent  on  keeping  ; 
Here  must  a  high  attest  be  given, 
What  Bridegroom  was  for  her  ordained 

by  Heaven  ; 
And  in  my  glass  significants  there  are 
Of  things  that  may  to  gladness  turn  this 

weeping. 

"  For  this,  approaching,  One  by  One, 
Thy  Knights  must  touch  the  cold  hand 

of  the  Virgin  ; 
So,  for  the  favoured  One,  the  Flower  may 

bloom 
Once  more  ;    but,   if  unchangeable  her 

doom, 
If  life  departed  be  for  ever  gone, 
Some  blessed  assurance,   from  this  cloud 

emerging, 

"  May  teach  him  to  bewail  his  loss  ; 
Not  with  a  grief  that,  like  a  vapour,  rises 
And  melts  ;  but  grief  devout  that  shall 

endure 
And  a  perpetual  growth  secure 
Of  purposes  which  no  false  thought  shall 
cross 
A  harvest  of  high  hopes  and  noble  enter- 
prises." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  King  ; — "  anon, 
Here,  where  the  Princess  lies,  begin  the 

trial ; 
Knights  each  in  order  as  ye  stand 
Step  forth." — To  touch  the  pallid  hand 
Sir  Agravaine  advanced  ;  no  sign  he  won 
From  Heaven  or  Earth  ; — Sir  Kaye  had 

like  denial. 

Abashed,  Sir  Dinas  turned  away  ; 
Even  for  Sir  Percival  was  no  disclosure  ; 
Though  he,  devoutest  of  all  Champions, 

ere 
He  reached  the  ebon  car,  the  bier 


518 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MAID. 


Whereon  diffused  like  snow  the  Damsel 
lay, 
Full  thrice  had  crossed  himself  in  meek  com- 
posure. 

Imagine  (but  ye  Saints  !  who  can  ?) 
How  in  still  air  the  balance  trembled  ; 
The  wishes,  peradventure  the  despites 
That   overcame    some    not  ungenerous 

Knights  ; 
And  all  the  thoughts  that  lengthened  out 
a  span 
Of  time  to  Lords  and  Ladies  thus  assembled. 

What  patient  confidence  was  here  ! 
And  there  how  many  bosoms  panted  ! 
While  drawing  toward  the  Car  Sir  Ga- 

waine,  mailed 
For  tournament,  his  Beaver  vailed, 
And  softly  touched  ;  but,  to  his  princely 

cheer 
And  high  expectancy,  no  sign  was  granted. 

Next,  disencumbered  of  his  harp, 

Sir  Tristram,   dear    to    thousands   as  a 

brother, 
Came  to  the  proof,  nor  grieved  that  there 

ensued 
No  change  ; — the  fair    Tzonda   he    had 

wooed 
With  love  too  true,  a  love  with  pangs  too 

sharp, 
From  hope  too  distant,  not  to  dread  another. 

Not  so  Sir  Launcelot  ; — from  Heaven's 
grace 

A  sign  he  craved,  tired  slave  of  vain  con- 
trition ; 

The  royal  Guinever  looked  passing  glad 

When  his  touch  failed. — Next  came  Sir 
Galahad  ; 

He  paused,  and  stood  entranced  by  that 
still  face 
Whose  features  he  had  seen  in  noontide 
vision. 

For  late,  as  near  a  murmuring  stream 
He  rested  'mid  an  arbour  green  and  shady, 
Nina,  the  good  Enchantress,  shed 
A  light  around  his  mossy  bed  ; 
And,  at  her  call,  a  waking  dream 
Prefigured  to  his  sense  the  Egyptian  Lady. 

Now,  while  his  bright-haired  front  he 

bowed, 
And  stood,  far-kenned  by  mantle  furred 

with  ermine, 
As  o'er  the  insensate  Body  hung 
The  enrapt,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 


Belief  sank  deep  into  the  crowd 
That  he  the  solemn  issue  would  determine. 

Nor  deem  it  strange;  the  Youth  had  worn 
That  very  mantle  on  a  day  of  glory, 
The  day  when  he  achieved  that  matchless 

feat, 
The  marvel  of  the  Perilous  Seat, 
Which  whosoe'er  approached  of  strengtl 

was  shorn, 
Though  King  or  Knight  the  most  renowned 

in  story. 

He  touched  with  hesitating  hand, 

And  lo !  those  Birds,  far-famed  through 

Love's  dominions, 
The  Swans,  in  triumph  clap  their  wings; 
And  their  necks  play,  involved  in  rings, 
Like  sinless    snakes   in    Eden's    happ) 

land ; — 
"  Mine  is  she,"  cried  the  Knight; — again 

they  clapped  their  pinions. 

' '  Mine  was  she — mine  she  is,  though  dead, 
And  to  her  name  my  soul  shall  cleave  in 

sorrow ;" 
Whereat,  a  tender  twilight  streak 
Of  colour  dawned  upon  the  Damsel's 

cheek ; 
And  her  lips,  quickening  with  uncertain 

red, 
Seemed  from  each  other  a  faint  warmth  to 

borrow. 

Deep  was  the  awe,  the  rapture  high, 
Of  love  emboldened,  hope  with  dread  en- 
twining, 
When,  to  the  mouth,  relenting  Death 
Allowed  a  soft  and  flower-like  breath, 
Precursor  to  a  timid  sigh, 
To  lifted  eyelids,  and  a  doubtful  shining 

In  silence  did  King  Arthur  gaze 
Upon  the  signs  that  pass  away  or  tarry  ; 
In  silence  watched  the  gentle  strife 
Of  Nature  leading  back  to  life  ; 
Then  eased  his  Soul  at  length  by  praise 
Of  God,   and  Heaven's  pure  Queen — the 
blissful  Mary. 

Then  said  he,  "Take  her  to  thy  heart 
Sir  Galahad  !  a  treasure  that  God  giveth, 
Bound  by  indissoluble  ties  to  thee 
Through  mortal  change  and  immortality; 
Be  happy  and  unenvied,  thou  who  art 
A  goodly  Knight  that  hath  no  Peer  that 
liveth  !" 


MISCELLANEOUS  rOEMS. 


519 


Not  long  the  Nuptials  were  delayed  ; 
And  sage  tradition  still  rehearses 
The  pomp  the  glory  of  that  hour 
When  toward  the  Altar  from  her  bower 
King  Arthur  led  the  Egyptian  Maid, 
And    Angels    carolled     these    far-echoed 
verses : — 

Who  shrinks  not  from  alliance 
Of  evil  with  good  Powers, 
To  God  proclaims  defiance, 
And  mocks  whom  he  adores. 

A  Ship  to  Christ  devoted 
From  the  Land  of  Nile  did  go  ; 
Alas !  the  bright  Ship  floated, 
An  idol  at  her  Prow. 

Ry  magic  domination, 
The  Heaven-permitted  vent 
Of  purblind  mortal  passion, 
Was  wrought  her  punishment. 

The  Flower,  the  Form  within  it, 
What  served  they  in  her  need  ? 
Her  port  she  could  not  win  it, 
Nor  from  mishap  be  freed. 

The  tempest  overcame  her, 
And  she  was  seen  no  more  ; 
But  gently  gently  blame  her, 
She  cast  a  Pearl  ashore. 

The  Maid  to  Jesu  hearkened, 
And  kept  to  him  her  faith, 
Till  sense  in  death  was  darkened, 
Or  sleep  akin  to  death. 

But  Angels  round  her  pillow 
Kept  watch,  a  viewless  band  ; 
And,  billow  favouring  billow, 
She  reached  the  destined  strand. 

Blest  Pair !  whate'er  befall  you, 
Your  faith  in  Him  approve 
Who  from  frail  earth  can  call  you, 
To  bowers  of  endless  love ! 


ODE, 
COMPOSED  ON    MAY   MORNING. 

While  from  the  purpling  east  departs 
The  Star  that  led  the  daw  n, 

Blithe  Flora  from  her  couch  upstarts, 
For  May  is  on  the  lav*". 


A  quickening  hope,  a  freshening  glee, 

Foreran  the  expected  Power, 
Whose  first-drawn  breath,  from  bush  and 
tree, 

Shakes  off  that  pearly  shower. 

All  Nature  welcomes  Her  whose  sway 

Tempers  the  year's  extremes ; 
Who  scattereth  lustres  o'er  noon-day, 

Like  morning's  dewy  gleams  ; 
While  mellow  warble,  sprightly  trill, 

The  tremulous  heart  excite  ; 
And  hums  the  balmy  air  to  still 

The  balance  of  delight. 

Time  was,  blest  Power  !   when  Youths  and 
Maids 

At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise, 
And  wander  forth,  in  forest  glades 

Thy  birth  to  solemnize. 
Though  mute  the  song — to  grace  the  rite 

"Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough, 
Thy  Spirit  triumphs  o'er  the  slight  ; 

Man  changes,  but  not  Thou  ! 

Thy  feathered  Lieges  bill  and  wings 

In  love's  disport  employ  ; 
Warmed  by  thy  influence,  creeping  Things 

Awake  to  silent  joy  : 
Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay  Plant 

Where  the  slim  wild  Deer  roves  ; 
And  served  in  depths  where  Fishes  haunt 

Their  own  mysterious  groves. 

Cloud-piercing  Peak,  and  trackless  Heath, 

Instinctive  homage  pay ; 
Nor  wants  the  dim-lit  Cave  a  wreath 

To  honour  Thee,  sweet  May  ! 
Where  Cities  fanned  by  thy  brisk  airs 

Behold  a  smokeless  sky, 
Their  puniest  Flower-pot-nursling  dares 

To  open  a  bright  eye. 

And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn, 

The  Pole,  from  which  thy  name 
Hath  not  departed,  stands  forlorn 

Of  song  and  dance  and  game, 
Still  from  the  village-green  a  vow 

Aspires  to  thee  addrest, 
Wherever  peace  is  on  the  brow, 

Or  love  within  the  breast. 

Yes!  where  Love  nestles  thou  canst  teach 

The  soul  to  love  the  more  ; 
Hearts  also  shall  thy  lessons  reach 

That  never  loved  before. 
Stript  is  the  haughty  One  of  pride, 

The  bashful  freed  from  fear, 
While  rising,  like  the  ocean- tide, 

In  flows  the  joyous  year. 

2  N 


520 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Hush,  feeble  lyre!  weak  words,  refuse 

The  service  to  prolong  ! 
To  yon  exulting  Thrush  the  Muse 

Intrusts  the  imperfect  song ; 
His  voice  shall  chant,  in  accents  clear, 

Throughout  the  live-long  day, 
Till  the  first  silver  Star  appear, 

The  sovereignty  of  May. 


TO  MAY. 


Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 

Since  thou,  blithe  May,  wert  born, 
And  Bards,  who  hailed  thee,  may  forget 

Thy  gifts,  thy  beauty  scorn  ; 
There  are  who  to  a  birthday  strain 

Confine  not  harp  and  voice, 
But  evermore  throughout  thy  reign 

Are  grateful  and  rejoice  ! 

-3elicious  odours  !  music  sweet, 

Too  sweet  to  pass  away  ! 
Oh  for  a  deathless  song  to  meet 

The  soul's  desire — a  lay 
That,  when  a  thousand  years  are  told, 

Should  praise  thee,  genial  Power  ! 
Through  summer  heat,  autumnal  cold, 

And  winter's  dreariest  hour. 

Earth,  Sea,  thy  presence  feel — nor  less 

If  yon  ethereal  blue 
With  its  soft  smile  the  truth  express, 

The  Heavens  have  felt  it  too. 
The  inmost  heart  of  man  if  glad 

Partakes  a  livelier  cheer  ; 
And  eyes  that  cannot  but  be  sad 

Let  fall  a  brightened  tear. 

Since  thy  return,  through  days  and  weeks 

Of  hope  that  grew  by  stealth, 
How  many  wan  and  faded  cheeks 

Have  kindled  into  health  ! 
The  Old,  by  thee  revived,  have  said, 

"  Another  year  is  ours  ;" 
And  wayworn  Wanderers,  poorly  fed, 

Have  smiled  upon  thy  flowers. 

Who  tripping  lisps  a  merry  song 

Amid  his  playful  peers? 
The  tender  Infant  who  was  long 

A  prisoner  of  fond  fears  ; 
But  now,  when  every  sharp-edged  blast 

Is  quiet  in  its  sheath, 
His  Mother  leaves  him  free  to  taste 

Earth's  sweetness  in  thy  breath. 


Thy  help  is  with  the  Weed  that  creep? 

Along  the  humblest  ground; 
No  Cliff  so  bare  but  on  its  steeps 

Thy  favours  may  be  found  ; 
But  most  on  some  peculiar  nook 

That  our  own  hands  have  drest, 
Thou  and  thy  train  are  proud  to  look, 

And  seem  to  love  it  best. 

And  yet  how  pleased  we  wander  forth 

When  May  is  whispering,  "  Come  ! 
Choose  from  the  bowers  of  virgin  earth 

The  happiest  for  your  home  ; 
Heaven's  bounteous  love   through  me  fc 
spread 

From  sunshine,  clouds,  winds,  waves, 
Drops  on  the  mouldering  turret's  head, 

And  on  your  turf-clad  graves  !" 

Such  greeting  heard,  away  with  sighs 

For  lilies  that  must  fade, 
Or  "  the  rathe  primrose  as  it  dies 

Forsaken"  in  the  shade  ! 
Vernal  fruitions  and  desires 

Are  linked  in  endless  chase  ; 
While,  as  one  kindly  growth  retires, 

Another  takes  its  place. 

And  what  if  thou,  sweet  May,  hast  known 

Mishap  by  worm  and  blight  ; 
If  expectations  newly  blown 

Have  perished  in  thy  sight ; 
If  loves  and  joys,  while  up  they  sprung, 

Were  caught  as  in  a  snare  ; 
Such  is  the  lot  of  all  the  young, 

However  bright  and  fair. 

Lo  !  Streams  that  April  could  not  check 

Are  patient  of  thy  rule  ; 
Gurgling  in  foamy  water-break, 

Loitering  in  glassy  pool : 
By  thee,  thee  only,  could  be  sent 

Such  gentle  Mists  as  glide, 
Curling  with  unconfirmed  intent, 

On  that  green  mountain's  side. 

How  delicate  the  leafy  veil 

Through  which  yon  House  of  God 
Gleams  'mid  the  peace  of  this  deep  dale 

By  few  but  shepherds  trod  ! 
And  lowly  Huts,  near  beaten  ways, 

No  sooner  stand  attired 
In  thy  fresh  wreaths,  than  they  for  praise 

Peep  forth,  and  are  admired. 

Season  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Permit  not  for  one  hour 
A  blossom  from  thy  crown  to  drop, 

Nor  add  to  it  a  flower  1 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


521 


Keep,  lovely  May,  as  if  by  toucli 

Of  self-restraining  art, 
1  his  modest  charm  of  not  too  much, 

Fart  seen,  imagined  part  ! 


INSCRIPTION. 

[*HB   massy   Ways,    carried    across   these 

Heights 
By  Roman  Perseverance,  are  destroyed, 
Or    hidden    under  ground,    like    sleeping 

worms. 
How  venture  then  to  hope  that  Time  will 

spare 
This  humble  Walk  ?  Yet  on  the  mountain's 

side 
A  Poet's  hand  first  shaped  it ;  and  the  steps 
Of  that  same  Bard,  repeated  to  and  fro 
At  morn,  at  noon,   and  under  moonlight 

skies, 
Through  the  vicissitudes  of  many  a  year, 
Forbade  the  weeds  to  creep  o'er  its  grey 

line. 
No  longer,  scattering  to  the  heedless  winds 
The  vocal  raptures  of  fresh  poesy, 
Shall  he  frequent  these  precincts  ;  locked 

no  more 
In  earnest  converse  with  beloved  Friends, 
Here  will  he  gather  stores  of  ready  bliss, 
As  from  the  beds  and  borders  of  a  garden 
Choice  flowers  are  gathered  !  But,  if  Power 

may  spring 
Out  of  a  farewell  yearning  favoured  more 
Than  kindred  wishes  mated  suitably 
With  vain  regrets,  the  Exile  would  consign 
This  Walk,  his  loved  possession,  to  the  care 
Of  those   pure  Minds  that  reverence   the 

Muse. 


ELEGIAC  MUSINGS 

IN  THE  GROUNDS  OF  COLEORTON  HALE, 
THE  SEAT  OF  THE  LATE  SIR  GEORGE 
BEAUMONT,    BART. 

[In  these  grounds  stands  the  Parish  Church, 
wherein  is  a  mural  monument,  the  Inscription 
upon  which,  in  deference  to  the  earnest  request 
of  the  deceased,  is  confined  to  name,  dates, 
and  these  words  : — "  Enter  not  into  judgment 
with  thy  servant,  O  Lord  !"] 

With  copious  eulogy  in  prose  and  rhyme 
Graven  on  the  tomb  we  struggle  against 

Time, 
Alas,  how  feebly  !  but  our  feelings  rise 
And  still  we  struggle  when  a  good  man 

dies: 


Such  offering    Beaumont    dreaded  and 

forbade, 
A  spirit  meek  in  self-abasement  clad. 
Yet  here  at  least,  though  few  have  num- 

bered  days 
That  shunned  so  modestly  the  light  of 

praise,  [ray 

His  graceful  manners,  and  the  temperate 
Of  that  arch  fancy  which  would  round  him 

play, 
Brightening  a  converse   never  known   to 

swerve 
From  courtesy  and  delicate  reserve  ; 
That  sense — the  bland  philosophy  of  life 
Which  checked  discussion  ere  it  warmed 

to  strife  ; 
Those   fine  accomplishments,    and   varied 

powers, 
Might    have   their  record   among  sylvan 

bowers. 
— Oh,  fled  for  ever  !  vanished  like  a  blast 
That   shook   the   leaves  in  myriads  as  it 

passed  ;  [sky, 

Gone  from  this  world  of  earth,  air,  sea,  and 
From  all  its  spirit-moving  imagery, 
Intensely  studied  with  a  Painter's  eye, 
A  Poet's  heart  ;  and,  for  congenial  view, 
Portrayed  with  happiest  pencil,  not  untrue 
To  common  recognitions  while  the  line 
Flowed  in  a  course  of  sympathy  divine — 
Oh  !  severed  too  abruptly  from  delights 
That   all   the   seasons  shared  with  equa. 

rights — 
Rapt  in  the  grace  of  undismantled  age, 
From  soul-felt  music,   and   the  treasured 

page, 
Lit  by  that  evening  lamp  which  loved  to 

shed 
Its  mellow  lustre  round  thy  honoured  head 
While  Friends  beheld  thee  give  with  eye, 

voice,  mien, 
More  than  theatric  force  to  Shakspeare's 

scene — 
Rebuke  us  not  ! — The  mandate  is  obeyed 
That  said,  ' '  Let  praise  be  mute  where  I 

am  laid  ;" 
The  holier  deprecation,  given  in  trust 
To  the  cold  Marble,  waits  upon  thy  dust  ; 
Yet  have  we  found  how  slowly  genuine  grief 
From  silent  admiration  wins  relief. 
'I  oo  long  abashed  thy  Name  is  like  a  Rose 
That    doth    "within  itself    its  sweetness 

close;" 
A  drooping  Daisy  changed  into  a  cup 
In  which  her  bright-eyed  beauty  is  shut  up. 
Within  these  Groves,  where  still  are  flitting 

by 
Shades  of  the  Past,  oft  noticed  with  a  sigh, 


522 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Shall  stand  a  votive  Tablet,  haply  free, 
When  towers  and  temples  fall,  to  speak  of 

Thee! 
If  sculptured  emblems  of  our  mortal  doom 
Recall  not  there  the  wisdom  of  the  Tomb, 
Green  ivy,  risen  from  out  the  cheerful  earth, 
Shall  fringe  the  lettered  stone  ;  and  herbs 

spring  forth, 
Whose  fragrance,  by  soft  dews  and  rain 

unbound, 
Shall  penetrate  the  heart  without  a  wound  ; 
While  truth  and  love  their  purposes  fulfil, 
Commemorating  genius,  talent,  skill, 
That  could  not  lie  concealed  where  Thou 

wert  known  ; 
Thy  virtues  He  must  judge,  and  He  alone, 
The    God    upon   whose   mercy    they    are 

thrown. 


INSCRIPTION 

INTENDED  FOR  A  STONE  IN  THE  GROUNDS 
OF   RYDAL   MOUNT. 

In  these  fair  Vales  hath  many  a  Tree 

At  Wordsworth's  suit  been  spared  ; 
And  from  the  Builder's  hand  this  Stone, 
For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own, 

Was  rescued  by  the  Bard: 
So  let  it  rest ; — and  time  will  come 

When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a  gentle  sigh  for  him, 

As  one  of  the  departed. 


EPITAPH. 


By  a  blest  Husband  guided  Mary  came 
From   nearest   kindred,   Vernon  her   new 

name  ; 
She  came  ;  though  meek  of  soul,  in  seemly 

pride 
Of  happiness  and  hope,  a  youthful  Bride. 

0  dread  reverse  !  if  aught   be  so,   which 

proves 
That  God    will    chasten  whom  he  dearly 

loves. 
F'aith  bore  her  up  through  pains  in  mercy 

given, 
And   troubles  that  were   each   a   step   to 

Heaven  : 
Two  Babes  were  laid  in  earth  before  she 

died; 
A  third  now  slumbers  at  the  Mother's  side  ; 
Its  Sister-twin  survives,  whose  smiles  afford 
A  trembling  solace  to  her  widowed  Lord. 

Reader!  if  to  thy  bosom  cling  the  pain 
Of  recent  sorrow  combated  in  vain ; 
Or   if   thy  cherished  grief  have  failed  to 

thwart 
Time  still  intent  on  his  insidious  part, 

1  .ulling  the  Mourner's  best  good  thoughts 

asleep, 
Pilfering   regrets  we  would,  but    cannot, 

keep  ; 
Bear  with  Him — judge  Him  gently  who 

makes  known 
His  bitter  loss  by  this  memorial  Stone; 
And   pray  that  in  his  faithful  breast  the 

grace 
Of  resignation  find  a  hallowed  place. 


WRITTEN   IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts  •, 

Of  Friends,  however  humble,  scorn  not 

one  : 

The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the 

Sun. 


INCIDENT  AT  BRUGES. 

In  Bruges  town  is  many  a  street 

Whence  busy  life  hath  fled ; 
Where,  without  hurry,  noiseless  feet, 

The  grass-grown  pavement  tread. 
There  heard  we,  halting  in  the  shade 

Flung  from  a  Convent-tower, 
A  harp  that  tuneful  prelude  made 

To  a  voice  of  thrilling  power. 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell, 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng  ; 
Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  fell 

The  shadow  and  the  song. 
When  silent  were  both  voice  and  chords 

The  strain  seemed  doubly  dear, 
Yet  sad  as  sweet,  for  English  words 

Had  fallen  upon  the  ear. 

It  was  a  breezy  hour  of  eve  ; 

And  pinnacle  and  spire 
Quivered  and  seemed  almost  to  heave, 

Clothed  with  innocuous  fire  ; 
But  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 

Showed  little  of  his  state  ; 
And,  if  the  glory  reached  the  Nun, 

'Twas  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise, 

Nor  pity  idly  born, 
If  even  a  passing  Stranger  sighs 

For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 


MISCELLANEU  US  POEMS. 


523 


Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove, 
i  'aptive,  whoe'er  thou  be ! 

Oh  !  what  is  beauty,  what  is  love, 
And  opening  life  to  thee? 

Such  feeling  pressed  upon  my  soul, 

A  feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  that  stole 

From  the  Maiden  at  my  side  ; 
Less  tribute  could  she  pay  than  this, 

Borne  gaily  o'er  the  sea, 
Fresh  from  the  beauty  and  the  bliss 

Of  English  liberty? 


A  JEWISH  FAMILY. 

(in  a  small  VALLEY  OPPOSITE  ST.  GOAR, 
UPON   THE   RHINE  ) 

Genius  of  Raphael !  if  thy  wings 

Might  bear  thee  to  this  glen, 
With  faithful  memory  left  of  things 

To  pencil  dear  and  pen, 
Thou   wouldst    forego    the    neighbouring 
Rhine, 

And  all  his  majesty, 
A  studious  forehead  to  incline 

O'er  this  poor  family. 

The  Mother — her  thou  must  have  seen, 

In  spirit,  ere  she  came 
To  dwell  these  rifted  rocks  between, 

Or  found  on  earth  a  name  ; 
An  image,  too,  of  that  sweet  Boy, 

Thy  inspirations  give  : 
Of  playfulness,  and  love,  and  joy, 

Predestined  here  to  live. 

Downcast,  or  shooting  glances  far, 

How  beautiful  his  eyes, 
That  blend  the  nature  of  the  star 

With  that  of  summer  skies  ! 
I  speak  as  if  of  sense  beguiled  ; 

Uncounted  months  are  gone, 
Yet  am  I  with  the  Jewish  Child, 

That  exquisite  St.  John. 

I  see  the  dark  brown  curls,  the  brow, 

The  smooth  transparent  skin, 
Refined, %as  with  intent  to  show 

The  holiness  within  ; 
The  grace  of  parting  Infancy 

By  blushes  yet  untamed  ; 
Age  faithful  to  the  mother's  knee, 

Nor  of  her  arms  ashamed. 


Two  lovely  Sisters,  still  and  sweet 

As  flowers,  stand  side  by  side  ; 
Their  soul-subduing  looks  might  cheat 

The  Christian  of  his  pride  : 
Such  beauty  hath  the  Eternal  poured 

Upon  them  not  forlorn, 
Though  of  a  lineage  once  abhorred, 

Nor  yet  redeemed  from  scorn. 

Mysterious  safeguard,  that,  in  spite 

Of  poverty  and  wrong, 
Doth  here  preserve  a  living  light, 

From  Hebrew  fountains  sprung  ; 
That  gives  this  ragged  group  to  cast 

Around  the  dell  a  gleam 
Of  Palestine!  of  glory  past, 

And  proud  Jerusalem! 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS. 

"Not  to  the  earth  confined, 
Ascend  to  heaven." 

Where  will  they  stop,    those  breathing 

Powers, 
The  Spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 
They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 
Where'er  the  streams  a  passage  find  ; 
Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 
In  mute  aerial  harmonies  ; 
From  humble  violet  modest  thyme 
Exhaled,  the  essential  odours  climb, 
As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 
Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy  : 
Heaven   will   not   tax   our  thoughts  with 

pride 
If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May-showers, 
The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers, 
That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves, 
The  Birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  notes 
Of  rapture  from  a  thousand  throats, 
Here  checked  by  too  impetuous  haste, 
While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste, 
With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged.. 
Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged  ; 
Give  ear,  O  Man  !  to  their  appeal 
*\nd  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal, 
Thou,  who  canst  think,  as  well  as  feel. 

Mount  from  the  earth  ;  aspire  !  aspire  ! 
So  pleads  the  town's  cathedral  choir, 
In  strains  that  from  their  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a  loftier  flight  : 


524 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes 
Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths  ; 
Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper  lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  Forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter's  skill, 
That  on  the  service  wait  concealed 
One  moment,  and  the  next  revealed. 
— Cast  off  your  bonds,  awake,  arise, 
And  for  no  transient  ecstasies  ! 
What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea 
Of  still  or  moving  imagery  ? 
The  iterated  summons  loud, 
Not  wasted  on  the  attendant  crowd, 
Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  the  busy  streets  along? 

Alas !  the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualise  the  mind, 
Decay  and  languish  ;  or,  as  creeds 
And   humours   change,   are  spurned    like 

weeds : 
The  solemn  rites,  the  awful  forms, 
Founder  amid  fanatic  storms  ; 
The  priests  are  from  their  altars  thrust, 
The  temples  levelled  with  the  dust: 
Yet  evermore,  through  years  renewed 
In  undisturbed  vicissitude 
Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 
On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 
Kind  Nature  keeps  a  heavenly  door 
Wide  open  for  the  scattered  Poor. 
Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies 
Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies  ; 
And  ground  fresh  cloven  by  the  plough 
Is  fragrant  with  a  humbler  vow  ; 
Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leafy  dells 
Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles, 
And  vapours  magnify  and  spread 
The  glory  of  the  sun's  bright  head  ; 
Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 
Conforming  to  the  almighty  Will, 
Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields, 
Her  admonitions  Nature  yields  ; 
That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live, 
Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  can  give  ; 
That  every  day  should  leave  some  part 
Free  for  a  sabbath  of  the  heart ; 
So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest, 
From  mora  to  eve,  with  hallowed  rest. 


THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S  LOVE. 

[The  subject  of  the  following  poem  is  from  the 
Orlandus  of  the  author's  friend,  Kenelm 
Henry  Digby  ;  and  the  liberty  is  taken  of 
inscribing  it  to  him  as  an  acknowledgment, 
however  unworthy,  of  pleasure  and  instruc 
tion  derived  from  his  numerous  and  valuable 
writings,  illustrative  of  the  piety  and  chivalry 
of  the  olden  time.] 


You  have  heard  "  a  Spanish  Lady 

How  she  wooed  an  English  Man  ;"* 
Hear  now  of  a  fair  Armenian, 
Daughter  of  the  proud  Soldan  ; 
How  she  loved  a  Christian  Slave,  and  told 

her  pain 
By  word,  look,  deed,   with  hope  that  he 
might  love  again. 


"  Pluck  that  rose,  it  moves  my  liking," 

Said  she,  lifting  up  her  veil  ; 
"  Pluck  it  for  me,  gentle  Gardener, 
Ere  it  wither  and  grow  pale." 
"  Princess  fair,  I  till  the  ground,  but  may 

not  take 
From  twig  or  bed  an  humbler  flower,  even 
for  your  sake." 

3- 
"  Grieved  am  I,  submissive  Christian  ! 

To  behold  thy  captive  state  ; 
Women,  in  your  land,  may  pity 
(May  they  not?)  the  unfortunate." 
"Yes,  kind   Lady!  otherwise  Man  could 

not  bear 
Life,  which  to  every  one  that  breathes  is 
full  of  care." 

4- 
"  Worse  than  idle  is  compassion 

If  it  end  in  tears  and  sighs  ; 
Thee  from  bondage  would  I  rescue 
And  from  vile  indignities  ; 
Nurtured,  as  thy  mien  bespeaks,  in  high 

degree, 
Look  up — and  help  a  hand  that  longs  to 
set  thee  free." 

5- 
"  Lady,  dread  the  wish,  nor  venture 

In  such  peril  to  engage  ; 
Think  how  it  would  stir  against  you 
Your  most  loving  Father's  rage: 


*  See  in  Percy's  Reliques,  that  fine  old  ballad, 
"The  Spanish  Lady's  Love  ;"  from  which  Poem 
the  form  of  stanza,  as  suitable  to  dialogue,  is 
-Adopted. 


MISCELLANEOUS  rOEMS. 


620 


Sad  deliverance  would  it  he,   and   yoked 

with  shame, 
Should  troubles  overflow  on  her  from  whom 
it  came." 

6. 
"  Generous  Frank  !  the  just  in  effort 

Are  of  inward  peace  secure  ; 
Hardships  for  the  brave  encountered, 
Even  the  feeblest  may  endure  : 
h  Almighty  Grace  through  me  thy  chains 

unbind, 
My  Father  for  slave's  work  may  seek  a 
slave  in  mind." 

7- 
"  Princess,  at  this  burst  of  goodness, 

My  long-frozen  heart  grows  warm  !" 
"  Yet  you  make  all  courage  fruitless, 
Me  to  save  from  chance  of  harm  : 
Leading   such  Companion   I    that   gilded 

Dome, 
Yon  Minarets,  would  gladly  leave  for  his 
worst  home." 

8. 
"  Feeling  tunes  your  voice,  fair  Princess  ! 

And  your  brow  is  free  from  scorn, 
Else  these  words  would  come  like  mock- 
ery, 
Sharper  than  the  pointed  thorn." 
"Whence  the  undeserved  mistrust  ?    Too 

wide  apart 
Our  faith  hath  been, — O  would  that  eyes 
could  see  the  heart  !" 


"  Tempt  me  not,  I  pray  ;  my  doom  is 

These  base  implements  to  wield  ; 

Rusty  Lance,  I  ne'er  shall  grasp  thee, 

Ne'er  assoil  my  cobwebb'd  shield  ! 

Never  see  my  native  land,  nor  castle  towers, 

Nor  Her  who  thinking  of  me  there  counts 

widowed  hours." 


"  Prisoner  !  pardon  youthful  fancies  ; 

Wedded?     If  you  can,  say  no  ! — 
Blessed  is  and  be  your  Consort ; 
Hopes  I  cherished  let  them  go  ! 
Elandmaid's  privilege  would  leave  my  pur- 
pose free, 
Without  another  link  to  my  felicity." 


"  Wedded  love  with  loyal  Christians, 

Lady,  is  a  mystery  rare  ; 
Body,  heart,  and  soul  in  union, 

Make  one  being  of  a  pair." 


"  Humble  love  in  me  would  look  for  no 

return, 
Soft   as   a  guiding   star   that  cheers,   but 

cannot  bum." 

12. 

"  Gracious  Allah!  by  such  title 
Do  I  dare  to  thank  the  God, 
Him  who  thus  exalts  thy  spirit, 
Flower  of  an  unchristian  sod  ! 
Or  hast  thou  put  off  wings  which  thou  in 

heaven  dost  wear? 
What  have  I  seen,  and  heard,  or  dreamt  ? 
where  am  I  ?  where  ?" 

13- 
Here  broke  off  the  dangerous  converse  : 

Less  impassioned  words  might  tell 
How  the  pair  escaped  together, 
Tears  not  wanting,  nor  a  knell 
Of  sorrow  in  her  heart  while  through  her 

Father's  door, 
And  from  her  narrow  world,  she  passed  for 
evermore. 

14. 

But  affections  higher,  holier, 

Urged  her  steps ;  she  shrunk  from  trust 
In  a  sensual  creed  that  trampled 
Woman's  birthright  into  dust. 
Little  be  the  wonder  then,  the  blame  be 

none, 
If  she,  a  timid  Maid,  hath  put  such  bold- 
ness on. 

IS- 
Judge  both  Fugitives  with  knowledge  : 

In  those  old  romantic  days 
Mighty  were  the  soul's  commandments 
To  support,  restrain,  or  raise. 
Foes  might  hang  upon  their  path,  snakes 

rustle  near, 
But  nothing  from  their  inward  selves  had 
they  to  fear. 

16. 

Thought  infirm  ne'er  came  between  them, 

Whether  printing  desert  sands 
With  accordant  steps ,  or  gathering 
Forest-fruit  with  social  hands  ; 
Or  whispering  like  two  reeds  that  in  the 

cold  moonbeam 
Bend  with  the  breeze  their  heads,  beside  a 
crystal  stream. 

i7- 
On  a  friendly  deck  reposing 

They  at  length  for  Venice  steer  ; 
There,  when  they  had  closed  their  voyage 
One,  who  daily  on  the  Pier 


526 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Watched  for  tidings  from  the  East,  beheld    While  across  her  virgin  cheek  pure  blushes 

his  Lord,  i  strayed, 

Fell  down  and  clasped  his  knees  for  joy,    For  every  tender  sacrifice  her  heart  had 

not  uttering  word.  j  made. 

18.  24- 

On  the  ground  the  weeping  Countess 

Knelt,  and  kissed  the  Stranger's  hand  ; 
Act  of  self-devoted  homage, 
Pledge  of  an  eternal  band  : 
Nor  did  aught  of  future  days  that  kiss  belie. 
Which,  with  a  generous  shout,  the  crowd 
did  ratify. 

25- 

Constant  to  the  fair  Armenian, 

Gentle  pleasures  round  her  moved, 
Like  a  tutelary  Spirit 
Reverenced,  like  a  Sister,  loved. 
Christian   meekness   smoothed  for  all  the 

path  of  life, 
Who,  loving  most,   should  wiseliest  love, 
their  only  strife. 

26. 

Mute  Memento  of  that  union 
In  a  Saxon  Church  survives, 
Where  a  cross-legged  Knight  lies  sculptured 

As  between  two  wedded  Wives — 
Figures  with  armorial  signs  of  race  and  birth , 
And  the  vain  rank  the  Pilgrims  bore  while 
yet  on  earth. 


Mutual  was  the  sudden  transport; 

Breathless  questions  followed  fast, 
Years  contracting  to  a  moment, 
Each  word  greedier  than  the  last; 
"  Hie  thee  to  the  Countess,  Friend  !  return 

with  speed, 
And  of  this  Stranger  speak  by  whom  her 
Lord  was  freed. 

19. 
"  Say  that  I,  who  might  have  languished, 
Drooped  and  pined  till  life  was  spent, 
Now  before  the  gates  of  Stolberg 
My  Deliverer  would  present 
For  a  crowning  recompence,  the  precious 

grace 
Of  her  who  in  my  heart  still  holds  her 
ancient  place. 

20. 
"'  Make  it  known  that  my  Companion 

Is  of  royal  Eastern  blood, 
Thirsting  after  all  perfection, 
Innocent,  and  meek,  and  good, 
Though  with  misbelievers  bred  ;  but  that 

dark  night 
Will  Holy  Church  disperse  by  beams  of 
Gospel  Light." 


Swiftly  went  that  grey-haired  Servant, 

Soon  returned  a  trusty  Page 
Charged  with  greetings,  benedictions. 
Thanks  and  praises,  each  a  gage 
For  a  sunny  thought  to  cheer  the  Stranger's 

way, 
Her  virtuous  scruples  to  remove,  her  fears 
allay. 

22. 

Fancy  (while,  to  banners  floating, 

High  on  Stolberg's  Castle  walls, 

Deafening  noise  of  welcome  mounted, 

Trumpets,  Drums,  and  Atabals,) 

The  devout  embraces  still,  while  such  tears 

fell 
As  made  a  meeting  seem  most  like  a  dear 
farewell. 

23- 
Through  a  haze  of  human  nature, 

Glorified  by  heavenly  light, 

Looked  the  beautiful  Deliverer 

On  that  overpowering  sight, 


THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK. 

A  Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 
The  passing  Traveller  slights  ; 

Yet  there    the    Glow-worms   hang    their 
lamps, 
Like  stars,  at  various  heights  ; 

And  one  coy  Primrose  to  that  Rock 
The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 

What  kingdoms  overthrown, 
Since  first  I  spied  that  Primrose-tuft 

And  marked  it  for  my  own  ; 
A  lasting  link  in  Nature's  chain 

From  highest  Heaven  let  down  ! 

The  Flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems, 

Their  fellowship  renew  ; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  ; 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres 

In  even'  fibre  true. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


527 


Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 
Though  threatening  still  to  fall  ; 

The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere  ; 
And  God  upholds  them  all : 

So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 
Her  annual  funeral. 


Here  closed  the  meditative  Strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day, 
The  hoary  mountain-heights  were  cheered, 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay; 
And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

I  gave  this  after-lay. 

I  sang,  Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  Thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Revive  unenvied, — mightier  far 

Than  tremblings  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope 

Is  God's  redeeming  love  : 

That  love  which  changed,  for  wan  disecee, 

For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
O'er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age, 

Their  moral  element, 
And  turned  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too, 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  called 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again  ; 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 
This  prescience  from  on  high, 

The  faith  that  elevates  the  Just, 
Before  and  when  they  die  ; 

And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  heaven, 
A  court  for  Deity. 


What  though  some  busy  Foes  to  good, 
Too  potent  over  nerve  and  blood, 

Lurk  near  you,  and  combine 
To  taint  the  health  which  ye  infuse, 
This  hides  not  from  the  moral  Muse 

Your  origin  divine. 

Mow  oft  from  you,  derided  Powers  ! 
Comes  Faith  that  in  auspicious  hours 

Builds  castles,  not  of  air  ; 
Bodings  unsanctioned  by  the  will 
Flow  from  your  visionary  skill, 

And  teach  us  to  beware. 

The  bosom-weight,  your  stubborn  gift, 
That  no  philosophy  can  lift, 

Shall  vanish,  if  ye  please, 
Like  morning  mist  ;  and,  where  it  lay, 
The  spirits  at  your  bidding  play 

In  gaiety  and  ease. 

Star-guided  Contemplations  move 
Through  space,   though  calm,  not  raised 
above 

Prognostics  that  ye  rule  ; 
The  naked  Indian  of  the  Wild, 
And  haply,  too,  the  cradled  Child, 

Are  pupils  of  your  school. 

But  who  can  fathom  your  intents, 
Number  their  signs  or  instruments? 

A  rainbow,  a  sunbeam, 
A  subtle  smell  that  Spring  unbinds, 
Dead  pause  abrupt  of  midnight  winds, 

An  echo,  or  a  dream. 

The  laughter  of  the  Christmas  hearth 
With  sighs  of  self-exhausted  mirth 

Ye  feelingly  reprove.  ; 
A  nd  daily,  in  the  conscious  breast, 
Your  visitations  are  a  test 

And  exercise  of  love. 


PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments  !  they  judge  not  right 
Who  deem  that  ye  from  open  light 

Retire  in  fear  of  shame  ; 
All  heaven-born  Instincts  shun  the  toucli 
Of  vulgar  sense,  and,  being  such, 

Such  privilege  ye  claim. 

The  tear  whose  source  I  could  not  guess, 
The  deep  sigh  that  seemed  fatherless, 

Were  mine  in  early  days  ; 
And  now,  unforced  by  Time  to  part 
With  Fancy,  I  obey  my  heart, 

And  venture  on  your  praise. 


When  some  great  change  gives  boundless 

scope 
To  an  exulting  Nation's  hope, 

Oft,  startled  and  made  wise 
By  your  low-breathed  interpretings, 
The  simply-meek  foretaste  the  springs 

Of  bitter  contraries. 

Ye  daunt  the  proud  array  of  War, 
Pervade  the  lonely  Ocean  far 

As  sail  hath  been  unfurled; 
For  Dancers  in  the  festive  hall 
What  ghastly  Partners  hath  your  call 

Fetched  from  the  shadowy  world! 


528 


SONNETS. 


'Tis  said,  that  warnings  ye  dispense 
Emboldened  by  a  keener  sense  ; 

That  men  have  lived  for  whom, 
With  dread  precision,  ye  made  clear 
The  hour  that  in  a  distant  year 

Should  knell  them  to  the  tomb. 

Unwelcome  Insight  !    Yet  there  are 
Blest  times  when  mystery  is  laid  bare, 

Truth  shows  a  glorious  face, 
While  on  that  Isthmus  which  commands 
The  councils  of  both  worlds  she  stands, 
Sage  Spirits  !  by  your  grace. 

God,  who  instructs  the  Brutes  to  scent 
All  changes  of  the  element, 

Whose  wisdom  fixed  the  scale 
Of  Natures,  for  our  wants  provides 
By  higher,  sometimes  humbler,  guides, 

When  lights  of  Reason  fail. 


SONNETS. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CAGED  TURTLE- 
DOVE. 

As  often  as  I  murmur  here 

My  half-formed  melodies, 
Straight  from  her  osier  mansion  near 

The  Turtledove  replies  : 
Though  silent  as  a  leaf  before, 

The  captive  promptly  coos  ; 
Is  it  to  teach  her  own  soft  lore, 

Or  second  my  weak  Muse? 

I  rather  think,  the  gentle  Dove 

Is  murmuring  a  reproof, 
Displeased  that  I  from  lays  of  love 

Have  dared  to  keep  aloof ; 
That  I,  a  Bard  of  hill  and  dale, 

Have  carolled,  fancy  free, 
As  if  nor  dove,  nor  nightingale, 

Had  heart  or  voice  for  me. 

If  such  thy  meaning,  O  forbear, 

Sweet  Bird  !  to  do  me  wrong; 
Love,  blessed  Love,  is  every  where 

The  spirit  of  my  song  : 
'Mid  grove,  and  by  the  calm  fireside, 

Love  animates  my  lyre  ; 
That  coo  again  ! — 'tis  not  to  chide, 

I  feel,  but  to  inspire. 


Chats  worth  !  thy  stately  mansion,  and 

the  pride 
Of  thy  domain,  strange  contrast  do  present 
To  house  and  home  in  many  a  craggy  rent 


Of  the  wild  Peak  ;  where  new-born  waters 

glide  [abide 

Through   fields   whose   thrifty   Occupants 
As  in  a  dear  and  chosen  banishment, 
With  every  semblance  of  entire  content; 
So  kind  is  simple  Nature,  fairly  tried ! 
Yet  He  whose  heart  in  childhood  gave  her 

troth  [farms, 

To   pastoral   dales,   thin  set  with  modest 
May  learn,   if  judgment    strengthen  with 

his  growth, 
That,    not   for  Fancy    only,    pomp    hath 

charms ;  [harms 

And,    strenuous    to   protect   from  lawless 
The  extremes  of  favoured  life,  may  honour 

both 


Desponding  Father  !    mark  this  altered 

bough, 
So  beautiful  of  late,  with  sunshine  warmed, 
Or  moist  with  dews  ;  what  more  unsightly 

*  now, 
Its  blossoms  shrivelled,   and  its    fruit,    if 

formed, 
Invisible  ?  yet  Spring  her  genial  brow 
Knits  not  o'er  that  discolouring  and  decay 
As  false  to  expectation.     Nor  fret  thou 
At  like  unlovely  process  in  the  May 
Of  human  life  :  a  Stripling's  graces  blow, 
Fade  and  are  shed,  that  from  their  timelv 

fall 
(Misdeem  it  not  a  cankerous  change)  may 

grow 
Rich  mellow  bearings,  that  for  thanks  shall 

call; 
In  all  men,  sinful  is  it  to  be  slow 
To  hope — in  Parents,  sinful  above  all. 


ROMAN   ANTIQUITIES   DISCOVERED   AT 
BISHOPSTONE,    HEREFORDSHIRE. 

While  poring  Antiquarians  search  the 
ground 

Upturned  with  curious  pains,  the  Bard,  a 
Seer,  appear ; 

Takes  fire  : — The  men  that  have  been  re. 

Romans  for  travel  girt,  for  business  gowned, 

And  some  recline  on  couches,  myrtle- 
crowned,  [clear, 

In  festal  glee  :  why  not?    For  fresh  and 

As  if  its  hues  were  of  the  passing  year, 

Dawns  this  time-buried  pavement.  From 
that  mound 

Hoards  may  come  forth  of  Trajans, 
Maximins, 

Shrunk  into  coins  with  all  their  warlike  toil : 


THE  II US 8 IAN  FUGITIVE. 


6S9 


Or  a  fierce  impr:ss  issues  with  its  foil 
Oi  tenderness — the  Wolf,  whose  suckling 
Twins  [wins 

The  unlettered  Ploughboy  pities  when  he 
The  casual  treasure  from  the  furrowed  soil. 


ST.   CATHERINE   OF  LEDBURY. 

WHEN  human  touch,    as  monkish  books 

attest, 
Nor  was  applied  norcouldbe,  Ledbury  bells 
Broke   forth  in  concert  flung  adown  the 

dells,  [crest  ; 

And   upward,    high   as    Malvern's  cloudy 
Sweet  tones,  and  caught  by  a  noble  Lady 

blest 
To  rapture  !    Mabel  listened  at  the  side 
Of  her  loved  Mistress:  soon  the  music  died, 
And  Catherine  said,   "  Here  I  set  up  my 

rest."  [had  sought 

Warned   in  a  dream,   the  Wanderer  long 
A  home  that  by  such  miracle  of  sound 
Must  be  revealed  : — she  heard  it  now,  or 

felt 
The  deep,  deep  joy  of  a  confiding  thought  ; 
And  there,  a  saintly  Anchoress  she  dwelt 
Till  she  exchanged  for  heaven  that  happy 

Ground. 


THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 

[Peter  Henry  Bruce,  having  given  in  his  enter- 
tainingMemoir  the  substance  of  the  following 
Tale,  affirms,  that,  besides  the  concurring  re- 
ports of  others,  he  had  the  story  from  the 
Lady's  own  mouth. 

The  Lady  Catherine,  mentioned  towards 
the  close,  was  the  famous  Catherine,  then 
bearing  that  name  as  the  acknowledged  Wife 
of  Peter  the  Great.] 

Part  I. 


Enough  of  rose-bud  lips,  and  eyes 

Lake  harebells  bathed  in  dew, 
Of  cheek  that  with  carnation  vies, 

And  veins  of  violet  hue  ; 
Earth  wants  not  beauty  that  may  scorn 

A  likening  to  frail  flowers  ; 
Yea,  to  the  stars,  if  they  were  born 

For  seasons  and  for  hours. 


Through  Moscow's  gates,  with  gold   un- 
barred, 

Stepped  one  at  dead  of  night, 
Whom  such  high  beauty  could  not  guard 

From  meditated  blight  ; 


By  stealth  she  passed,  and  fled  as  fast 

As  doth  the  hunted  fawn, 
Nor  stopped,  till  in  the  dappling  east 

Appeared  unwelcome  dawn. 


Seven  days  she  lurked  in  brake  and  field, 

Seven  nights  her  course  renewed, 
Sustained  by  what  her  scrip  might  yield, 

Or  berries  of  the  wood; 
At  length,  in  darkness  travelling  on, 

When  lowly  doors  were  shut, 
The  haven  of  her  hope  she  won. 

Her  Foster-mother's  hut. 


"  To  put  your  love  to  dangerous  proof 

I  come,"  said  she,  "from  far  ; 
For  I  have  left  my  Father's  roof, 

In  terror  of  the  Czar." 
No  answer  did  the  Matron  give, 

No  second  look  she  cast  ; 
She  hung  upon  the  Fugitive, 

Embracing  and  embraced. 


She  led  her  Lady  to  a  seat 

Beside  the  glimmering  fire, 
Bathed  duteously  her  wayworn  feet, 

Prevented  each  desire  : 
The  cricket  chirped,  the  house-dog  d^zed 

And  on  that  simple  bed, 
Where  she  in  childhood  had  reposed, 

Now  rests  her  weary  head. 


When  she,  whose  couch  had  been  the  sod, 

Whose  curtain  pine  or  thorn, 
Had  breathed  a  sigh  of  thanks  to  God, 

Who  comforts  the  forlorn  ; 
While  over  her  the  Matron  bent 

Sleep  sealed  her  eyes,  and  stole 
Feeling  from  limbs  with  travel  spent, 

And  trouble  from  the  soul. 


7- 

Refreshed,  the  Wanderer  rose  at  morn, 

And  soon  again  was  dight 
In  those  unworthy  vestments  worn 

Through  long  and  perilous  flight ; 
And  "O  beloved  Nurse,"  she  said, 

' '  My  thanks  with  silent  tears 
Have  unto  Heaven  and  You  been  paid  : 

Now  listen  to  my  fears  ! 


530 


THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 


"  Have  you  forgot" — and  here  she  smiled— 

"  The  babbling  flatteries 
You  lavished  on  me  when  a  child 

Disporting  round  your  knees? 
I  was  your  lambkin,  and  your  bird, 

Your  star,  your  gem,  your  flower  ; 
Light  words,  that  were  more  lightly  heard 

In  manv  a  cloudless  hour  ! 


' '  The  blossom  you  so  fondly  praised 

Is  come  to  bitter  fruit; 
A  mighty  One  upon  me  gazed; 

I  spurned  his  lawless  suit, 
And  must  be  hidden  from  his  wrath: 

You,  Foster-father  dear, 
Will  guide  me  in  my  forward  path  ; 

I  may  not  tarry  here  ! 


"  I  cannot  bring  to  utter  woe 

Your  proved  fidelity." — 
' '  Dear  Child,  sweet  Mistress,  say  not  so  ! 

For  you  we  both  would  die." 
' '  Nay,  nay,  I  come  with  semblance  feigned 

And  cheek  embrowned  by  art  ; 
Yet,  being  inwardly  unstained, 

With  courage  will  depart." 


"  But  whither  would  you,  could  you,  flee? 

A  poor  Man's  counsel  take  ; 
The  Holy  Virgin  gives  to  me 

A  thought  for  your  dear  sake  ; 
Rest  shielded  by  our  Lady's  grace  ; 

And  soon  shall  you  be  led 
Forth  to  a  safe  abiding-place, 

Where  never  foot  doth  tread." 

Part  II. 


The  Dwelling  of  this  faithful  pair 

In  a  straggling  village  stood, 
For  One  who  breathed  unquiet  air 

A  dangerous  neighbourhood  ; 
But  wide  around  lay  forest  ground 

With  thickets  rough  and  blind  ; 
And  pine-trees  made  a  heavy  shade 

Impervious  to  the  wind. 


And  there,  sequestered  from  the  sight, 
Was  spread  a  treacherous  swamp, 

On  which  the  noonday  sun  shed  light 
As  from  a  lonely  lamp  ; 


And  midway  in  the  unsafe  morass, 

A  single  Island  rose 
Of  firm  dry  ground,  with  healthful  grass 

Adorned,  and  shady  boughs. 


The  Woodman  knew,  for  such  the  craft 

This  Russian  Vassal  plied, 
That  never  fowler's  gun,  nor  shaft 

Of  archer,  there  was  tried  ; 
A  sanctuary  seemed  the  spot 

From  all  intrusion  free  ; 
And  there  he  planned  an  artful  Cot 

For  perfect  secrecy. 


With  earnest  pains  unchecked  by  dread 

Of  Power's  far-stretching  hand, 
The  bold  good  Man  his  labour  sped 

At  nature's  pure  command  ; 
Heart-soothed,  and  busy  as  a  wren, 

While,  in  a  hollow  nook, 
She  moulds  her  sight-eluding  den 

Above  a  murmuring  brook. 


His  task  accomplished  to  his  mind, 

The  twain  ere  break  of  day 
Creep  forth,  and  through  the  forest  wind 

Their  solitary  way  ; 
Few  words  they  speak,  nor  dare  to  slack 

Their  pace  from  mile  to  mile, 
Till  they  have  crossed  the  quaking  marsh, 

And  reached  the  lonely  isle. 


The  sun  above  the  pine-trees  showed 

A  bright  and  cheerful  face  ; 
And  Ina  looked  for  her  abode, 

The  promised  hiding-place  ; 
She  sought  in  vain,  the  Woodman  smiled 

No  threshold  could  be  seen, 
Nor  roof,  nor  window  ;  all  seemed  wild 

As  it  had  ever  been. 


Advancing,  you  might  guess  an  hour, 

The  front  with  such  nice  care 
I  Is  masked,  ' '  if  house  it  be  or  bower, " 
But  in  they  entered  are  ; 
As  shaggy  as  were  wall  and  roof 

With  branches  intertwined, 
i  So  smooth  was  all  within,  air-proof, 
i      And  delicately  lined. 


THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 


531 


8. 

And  health  was  there,  and  maple  dish, 

And  cups  in  seemly  rows, 
And  couch— all  ready  to  a  wish 

For  nurture  or  repose  ; 
And  Heaven  doth  to  her  virtue  giant 

That  here  she  may  abide 
In  solitude,  with  every  want 

By  cautious  love  supplied. 


No  Queen,  before  a  shouting  crowd, 

Led  on  in  bridal  state, 
E'er  struggled  with  a  heart  so  proud, 

Entering  her  palace  gate  ; 
Rejoiced  to  bid  the  world  farewell, 

No  saintly  Anchoress 
E'er  took  possession  of  her  cell 

With  deeper  thankfulness. 


"  lather  of  all,  upon  thy  care 

And  mercy  am  I  thrown  ; 
Be  thou  my  safeguard  !" — such  her  prayer 

When  she  was  left  alone, 
Kneeling  amid  the  wilderness 

When  joy  had  passed  away, 
And  smiles'  fond  efforts  of  distress 

To  hide  what  they  betray  ! 


rhe  prayer  is  heard,  the  Saints  have  seen, 

Diffused  through  form  and  face, 
Resolves  devotedly  serene  ; 

That  monumental  grace 
Of  Faith,  which  doth  all  passions  tame 

That  reason  should  control  ; 
And  shows  in  the  untrembling  frame 

A  statue  of  the  soul. 

Tart  III. 


"lis  sung  in  ancient  minstrelsy 

That  Phoebus  wont  to  wear 
' '  The  leaves  of  any  pleasant  tree 

Around  his  golden  hair,"* 
Till  Daphne,  desperate  with  pursuit 

Of  his  imperious  love, 
At  her  own  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 

A  laurel  in  the  grove. 


From  Golding's  Translation  of  Ovid's  Me- 
tamorphoses. See  also  his  Dedicatory  Epistle 
a^  fixed  to  the  same  work. 


Then  did  the  Penitent  adorn 

His  brow  with  laurel  green  ; 
And  'mid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 

No  meaner  leaf  was  seen  ; 
And  Poets  sage,  through  every  age, 

About  their  temples  wound 
The   bay  ;   and   Conquerors  thanked    the 
Gods, 

With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 


Into  the  mists  of  fabling  Time 

So  far  runs  back  the  praise 
Of  Beauty,  that  disdains  to  climb 

Along  forbidden  ways  ; 
That  scorns  temptation  ;  power  defies 

Where  mutual  love  is  not ; 
And  to  the  tomb  for  rescue  flies 

When  life  would  be  a  blot. 


To  this  fair  Votaress,  a  fate 

More  mild  doth  Heaven  ordain 
Upon  her  Island  desolate  ; 

And  words,  not  breathed  in  vain, 
Alight  tell  what  intercourse  she  found, 

H»r  silence  to  endear  ; 
What  birds  she  tamed,  what  flowers  the 
ground 

Sent  forth  her  peace  to  cheer. 


To  one  mute  Presence,  above  all, 

Her  soothed  affections  clung, 
A  picture  on  the  Cabin  wall 

By  Russian  usage  hung — 
The    Mother-maid,    whose    countenance 
bright 

With  love  abridged  the  day ; 
And,  communed  with  by  taper  light, 

Chased  spectral  fears  away. 

6. 
And  oft,  as  either  guardian  came, 

The  joy  in  that  retreat 
Might  any  common  friendship  shame, 

So  high  their  hearts  would  beat  ; 
And  to  the  lone  Recluse,  whate'er 

They  brought,  each  visiting 
Was  like  the  crowding  of  the  year 

With  a  new  burst  of  spring. 

7- 
But,  when  she  of  her  Parents  thought, 

The  pang  was  hard  to  bear  ; 
And,  if  with  all  things  not  enwrpught, 

That  trouble  still  is  near. 


532 


THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 


Before  her  night  she  had  not  dared 

Their  constancy  to  prove, 
Too  much  the  heroic  Daughter  feared 

The  weakness  of  their  love. 


Dark  is  the  Past  to  them,  and  dark 

The  Future  still  must  be, 
Till  pitying  Saints  conduct  her  bark 

Into  a  safer  sea — 
Or  gentle  Nature  close  her  eyes, 

And  set  her  Spirit  free 
From  the  altar  of  this  sacrifice, 

In  vestal  purity. 

9- 
Yet,  when  above  the  forest-glooms 

The  white  swans  southward  passed, 
High  as  the  pitch  of  their  swift  plumes 

Her  fancy  rode  the  blast ; 
And  bore  her  tow'rd  the  fields  of  France, 

Her  Father's  native  land, 
To  mingle  in  the  rustic  dance, 

The  happiest  of  the  band  ! 


Of  those  beloved  fields  she  oft 

Had  heard  her  father  tell 
In  phrase  that  now  with  echoes  soft 

Haunted  her  lonely  cell ; 
She  saw  the  hereditary  bowers, 

She  heard  the  ancestral  stream  ; 
The  Kremlin  and  its  haughty  towers 

Forgotten  like  a  dream  ! 

Part  IV. 


The  ever-changing  Moon  had  traced 

Twelve  times  her  monthly  round, 
When  through  the  unfrequented  Waste 

Was  heard  a  startling  sound  ; 
A  shout  thrice  sent  from  one  who  chased 

At  speed  a  wounded  Deer, 
Bounding  through  branches  interlaced 

And  where  the  wood  was  clear. 


The  fainting  creature  took  the  marsh, 

And  toward  the  Island  fled, 
While  plovers  screamed  with  tumult  harsh 

Above  his  antlered  head  ; 
This,  Ina  saw  ;  and,  pale  with  fear, 

Shrunk  to  her  citadel ; 
The  desperate  Deer  rushed  on,  and  near 

The  tangled  covert  fell. 


Across  the  marsh,  the  game  in  view, 

The  Hunter  followed  fast, 
Nor  paused,  till  o'er  the  Stag  he  blew 

A  death-proclaiming  blast  ; 
Then,  resting  on  her  upright  mind, 

Came  forth  the  Maid — "In  me 
Behold,"  she  said,  "a  stricken  Hind 

Pursued  by  destiny  ! 


"  From  your  deportment,  Sir  !   I  deem 

That  you  have  worn  a  sword, 
And  will  not  hold  in  light  esteem 

A  suffering  woman's  word ; 
There  is  my  covert,  there  perchance 

I  might  have  lain  concealed, 
My  fortunes  hid,  my  countenance 

Not  even  to  you  revealed. 


' '  Tears  might  be  shed,  and  I  might  prti) 

Crouching  and  terrified, 
That  what  has  been  unveiled  to-day, 

You  would  in  mystery  hide  ; 
But  I  will  not  defile  with  dust 

The  knee  that  bends  to  adore 
The  God  in  heaven  ; — attend,  be  just  : 

This  ask  I,  and  no  more ! 

6. 

"  I  speak  not  of  the  winter's  cold, 

For  summer's  heat  exchanged, 
While  I  have  lodged  in  this  rough  hold, 

From  social  life  estranged  ; 
Nor  yet  of  trouble  and  alarms  : 

High  Heaven  is  my  defence  ; 
And  every  season  has  soft  arms 

For  injured  Innocence. 


' '  From  Moscow  to  the  Wilderness 

It  was  my  choice  to  come, 
Lest  virtue  should  be  harbourless, 

And  honour  want  a  home  ; 
\nd  happy  were  I,  if  the  Czar 

Retain  his  lawless  will, 
To  end  life  here  like  this  poor  Deer, 

Or  a  Lamb  on  a  green  hill." 


' '  Are  you  the  Maid, ' '  the  Stranger  cried., 
"  From  Gallic  Parents  sprung, 

Whose  vanishing  was  rumoured  wide, 
Sfld  theme  for  every  tongue  ; 


SONNETS. 


633 


Who  foiled  an  Emperoi's  eager  quest  ? 

You,  Lady,  forced  to  wear 
i  hesc  rude  habiliments,  and  rest 

Your  head  in  this  dark  lair  !" 


But  wonder,  pity,  soon  were  quelled  ; 

And  in  her  face  and  mien 
The  soul's  pure  brightness  he  beheld 

Without  a  veil  between  : 
1  le  loved,  he  hoped, — a  holy  flame 

Kindled  'mid  rapturous  tears; 
'Hie  passion  of  a  moment  came 

As  on  the  wings  of  years. 


'  Such  bounty  is  no  gift  of  chance, " 

Exclaimed  he  ;  "righteous  Heaven, 
Preparing  your  deliverance, 

To  me  the  charge  hath  given. 
The  Czar  full  oft  in  words  and  deeds 

Is  stormy  and  self-willed  ; 
But,  when  the  Lady  Catherine  pleads, 

His  violence  is  stilled. 


' '  Leave  open  to  my  wish  the  course, 

And  I  to  her  will  go  ; 
From  that  humane  and  heavenly  source, 

Good,  only  good,  can  flow." 
Faint  sanction  given,  the  Cavalier 

Was  eager  to  depart, 
Though  question  followed  question,  dear 

To  the  Maiden's  filial  heart. 


Light  was  his  step, — his  hopes,  more  light, 

Kept  pace  with  his  desires  ; 
And  the  third  morning  gave  him  sight 

Of  Moscow's  glittering  spires. 
He  sued  : — heart-smitten  by  the  wrong, 

To  the  lorn  Fugitive 
The  Emperor  sent  a  pledge  as  strong 

As  sovereign  power  could  give. 

13- 
O  more  than  mighty  change  !  If  e'er 

Amazement  rose  to  pain, 
And  over-joy  produced  a  fear 

Of  something  void  and  vain, 
'Twas  when  the  Parents,  whohad  mourned 

So  long  the  lost  as  dead, 
Beheld  their  only  Child  returned, 

The  household  floor  to  tread. 


14. 

Soon  gratitude  gave  way  to  love 

Within  the  Maiden's  breast : 
Delivered  and  Deliverer  move 

In  bridal  garments  drcst  ; 
Meek  Catherine  had  her  own  -eward  , 

The  Czar  bestowed  a  dower, 
And  universal  Moscow  shared 

The  triumph  of  that  hour. 


Flowers  strewed  the  ground  ;  the  nuptial 
feast 

Was  held  with  costly  state  ; 
And  there,  'mid  many  a  noble  Guest, 

The  Foster-parents  sate  ; 
Encouraged  by  the  imperial  eye, 

They  shrank  not  into  shade  ; 
Great  was  their  bliss,  the  honour  high 

To  them  and  nature  paid  ! 


SONNETS. 


Why  art  thou  silent  !  Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 
Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant 
(As  would  my  deeds  have  been)  with  hourly 

care, 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendi- 
cant 
For  naught  but  what  thy  happiness  could 

spare. 
Speak,  though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once 

free  to  hold 
A  thousand   tender  pleasures,    thiiie   and 

mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 
Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  filled  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine  ; 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end 
may  know ! 


Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein 
Whirled  us  o'er  sunless  ground  beneath  a 

sky 
As  void  of  sunshine,  when,  from  that  wide 

Plain, 
Clear  tops  of  far-off  Mountains  we  descry, 
Like  a  Sierra  of  cerulean  Spain, 
All  light  and  lustre.     Did  no  heart  reply? 
Yes,  there  was  One  ; — for  One,  asunder  fly 
The  thousand  links  of  that  ethereal  chain  ; 


534 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  green  vales  open  out,  with  grove  and 

field, 
And  the  fair  front  of  many  a  happy  home  ; 
Such  tempting  spots  as  into  vision  come 
While  soldiers,  of  the  weapons  that  they 

wield 
Weary,  and  sick  of  strifeful  Christendom, 
Ga<ze  on  the  moon  by  parting  clouds  re- 
vealed. 


TO   THE   AUTHOR'S   PORTRAIT. 

[Painted  at  Rydal  Mount,  by  W.  Pickersgill, 
Esq.,  for  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.] 

Go,  faithful  Portrait  !  and  where  long  hath 

knelt 
Margaret,  the  saintly  Foundress,  take  thy 

place  ; 
And,  if  Time  spare  the  colours  for  the  grace 
Which  to  the  work  surpassing  skill  hath 

dealt, 
Thou,  on  thy  rock  reclined,  though  King- 
doms melt 
And  States  be  torn  up  by  the  roots,  wilt 

seem 
To  breathe   in   rural  peace,    to  hear  the 

stream, 
To  think  and  feel  as  once  the  Poet  felt. 
Whate'er  thy  fate,  those  features  have  not 

grown 
Unrecognised  through  many  a  household 

tear, 
More  prompt  more  glad  to  fall  than  drops 

of  dew 
By  morning  shed  around  a  flower    half 

blown  ; 
Tears  of  delight,  that  testified  how  true 
To  life  thou  art,   and,    in  thy  truth,  how 

dear ! 


GOLD  AND  SILVER  FISHES, 

IN   A   VASE. 

The  soaring  Lark  is  blest  as  proud 

When  at  Heaven's  gate  she  sings  ; 
The  roving  Bee  proclaims  aloud 

Her  flight  by  vocal  wings  ; 
While  Ye,  in  lasting  durance  pent, 

Your  silent  lives  employ 
For  something  "  more  than  dull  content 

Though  haply  less  than  joy." 

Yet  might  your  glassy  prison  seem 

A  place  where  joy  is  known, 
Where  golden  flash  and  silver  glean? 

Have  meanings  of  their  own  ; 


While,  high  and  low,  and  all  about, 
Your  motions,  glittering  Elves  ! 

Ye  weave — no  danger  from  without, 
And  peace  among  yourselves. 

Type  of  a  sunny  human  breast 

Is  your  transparent  cell ; 
Where  Fear  is  but  a  transient  guest, 

No  sullen  humours  dwell  ; 
Where,  sensitive  of  every  ray 

That  smites  this  tiny  sea, 
Your  scaly  panoplies  repay 

The  loan  with  usury. 

How  beautiful !     Yet  none  knows  why 

This  ever-graceful  change, 
Renewed — renewed  incessantly — 

Within  your  quiet  range. 
Is  it  that  ye  with  conscious  skill 

For  mutual  pleasure  glide  ; 
And  sometimes,  not  without  your  will, 

Are  dwarfed,  or  magnified  ? 

Fays — Genii  of  gigantic  size — 

And  now,  in  twilight  dim, 
Clustering  like  constellated  Eyes 

In  wings  of  Cherubim, 
When  they  abate  their  fiery  glare  : 

Whate'er  your  forms  express, 
Whate'er  ye  seem,  whate'er  ye  are, 

All  leads  to  gentleness. 

Cold  though  your  nature  be,  'tis  pure  ; 

Your  birthright  is  a  fence 
From  all  that  haughtier  kinds  endure 

Through  tyranny  of  sense. 
Ah  !  not  alone  by  colours  bright 

Are  Ye  to  Heaven  allied, 
When,  like  essential  Forms  of  light, 

Ye  mingle,  or  divide. 

For  day-dreams  soft  as  e'er  beguiled 

Day-thoughts  while  limbs  repose  ; 
For  moonlight  fascinations  mild 

Your  gift,  ere  shutters  close  ; 
Accept,  mute  Captives  !  thanks  and  praise  : 

And  may  this  tribute  prove 
That  gentle  admirations  raise 

Delight  resembling  love. 


LIBERTY. 

(sequel  to  the  above.) 

[Addressed  to  a  Friend ;  the  Gold  and  Silver 
Fishes  having  been  removed  to  a  pool  in 
the  pleasure-ground  of  Rydal  Mount.] 

"The  liberty  of  a   people   consists  in  being 
governed  by  laws  which  they  have   made  for 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


535 


themselves,  under  whatever  form  it  be  of  govern- 
ment. The  liberty  of  a  private  man,  in  being 
master  of  his  own  time  and  actions,  as  far  as 
may  consist  with  the  laws  of  God  and  of  his 
country.  Of  this  latter  we  are  here  to  dis- 
course."— Cowley. 

Those  breathing  Tokens  of  your  kind  re- 
gard, 
(Suspect  not,  Anna,  that  their  fate  is  hard  ; 
Not  soon  does  aught  to  which  mild  fancies 

cling, 
In  lonely  spots,  become  a  slighted  thing  ;) 
Those  silent  Inmates  now  no  longer  share, 
Nor  do  they  need,  our  hospitable  care, 
Removed  in  kindness  from  their  glassy  Cell 
To  the  fresh  waters  of  a  living  Well ; 
That  spreads  into  an  elfin  pool  opaque 
Of  which  close  boughs  a  glimmering  mirror 

make, 
On  whose  smooth  breast  with  dimples  light 

and  small 
The  fly  may  settle,  leaf  or  blossom  fall. 
—  There  swims,  of  blazing  sun  and  beating 

shower 
Fearless  (but  how  obscured !)  the  golden 

Power, 
That  from  his  bauble  prison  used  to  cast 
Gleams  by  the  richest  jewel  unsurpast ; 
And  near  him, darkling  like  a  sullen  Gnome, 
The  silver  Tenant  of  the  crystal  dome  ; 
Dissevered  both  from  all  the  mysteries 
Of  hue  and  altering  shape  that  charmed  all 

eyes. 
They  pined,  perhaps,  they  languished  while 

they  shone  ; 
And,  if  not  so,  what  matters  beauty  gone 
And  admiration  lost,  by  change  of  place 
That  brings  to  the  inward  creature  no  dis- 
grace? 
But  if  the  change  restorehis  birthright,  then, 
Whate'er  the  difference,  boundless  is  the 

gain. 
Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 
Reach  the  caged  Lark,  within  a  town-abode, 
From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied  sod  ? 
O  yield  him  back  his  privilege  !    No  sea 
Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a  man  set  free  ; 
A  wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty. 
Roll  on,  ye  spoutingWhales,  who  die  or  keep 
Your  independence  in  the  fathomless  Deep ! 
Spread,  tiny  Nautilus,  the  living  sail ; 
Dive,  at  thy  choice,  or  brave  the  freshening 

gale  ! 
If  unreproved  the  ambitious  Eagle  mount 
Sunward  to  seek  the  daylight  in  its  fount. 
Bays,   gulfs,   and   ocean's    Indian    width, 

shall  be, 
Till  the  world  perishes,  a  field  for  thee  ! 


While  musing  here  I  sit  in  shadow  cooi, 
And  watch  these  mute  Companions,  in  the 

pool, 
Among  reflected  boughs  of  leafy  trees, 
By  glimpses   caught — disporting    at   their 

ease — 
Enlivened,  braced,  by  hardy  luxuries, 
I  ask  what  warrant  fixed  them  (like  a  spell 
Of  witchcraft  fixed  them)  in  the  crystal  Cell ; 
To  wheel  with  languid  motion  round  and 

round, 
Beautiful,  yet  in  a  mournful  durance  bound. 
Their  peace,  perhaps,  our  lightest  footfall 

marred  ; 
On  their  quick  sense  our  sweetest  music 

jarred ; 
And  whither  could  they  dart,  if  seized  with 

fear? 
No  sheltering  stone,   no  tangled  root  was 

near. 
Whenfireor  taperceased  to  cheer  the  room, 
They  wore  away  the  night  in  starless  gloom; 
And,  when  the  sun  first  dawned  upon  the 

streams, 
How  faint  their  portion  of  his  vital  beams! 
Thus,  and  unable  to  complain,  they  fared, 
While  not  one  joy  of  ours  by  them  was 

shared. 

Is  there  a  cherished  Bird  (I  venture  now 
To  snatch  a  sprig  from  Chaucer's  reverend 

brow) — 
Is  there  a  brilliant  Fondling  of  the  cage, 
Though  sure  of  plaudits  on  his  costly  stage 
Though  fed  with  dainties  from  the  snow- 
white  hand 
Of  a  kind  Mistress,  fairest  of  the  land, 
But  gladly  would  escape ;  and,  if  need  were, 
Scatter  the  colours  from  theplumesthat  bear 
The  emancipated  captive  through  blithe  air 
Into  strange  woods,  where  he  at  large  may 

live 
On  best  or  worst  which  they  and  Nature 

give  ? 
The  Beetle  loves  his  unpretending  track, 
The  Snail  the  house  he  carries  on  his  back: 
The  far-fetched  Worm  with  pleasure  would 

disown 
The  bed  we  give  him,  though  of  softest 

down  ; 
A  noble  instinct  ;  in  all  kinds  the  same, 
All  Ranks  !  What  Sovereign,  worthy  of  the 

name, 
If  doomed  to  breathe  against  his  lawful  will 
An  element  that  flatters  him — to  kill, 
But  would  rejoice  to  barter  outward  show 
For  the  least  boon  that  freedom  can  be- 
stow ? 

2  O 


336 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  most  the  Bard  is  true  to  inborn  right, 
Lark  of  the  dawn,  and  Philomel  of  night, 
Exults  in  freedom,  can  with  rapture  vouch 
For  the  dear  blessings  of  a  lowly  couch, 
A  natural  meal — days,  months,  from  Na- 
ture's hand  ; 
Time,  place,  and  business,  all  at  his  com- 
mand ! 
Who  bends  to  happier  duties,  who  more  wise 
Than  the  industrious  Poet,  taught  to  prize, 
Above  all  grandeur,  a  pure  life  uncrossed 
By  cares  in  which  simplicity  is  lost  ? 
That  life— the  flowery  path  which  winds  by 

stealth, 
Which  Horace  needed  for  his  spirit's  health  ; 
Sighed  for,  in  heart  and  genius,  overcome 
By  noise,  and  strife,  and  questions  weari- 
some, 
And  the  vain  splendours  of  Imperial  Rome? 
Let  easy  mirth  his  social  hours  inspire, 
And  fiction  animate  his  sportive  lyre, 
Attuned  to  verse  that  crowning  light  Dis- 
tress 
With  garlands  cheats  her  into  happiness  ; 
Give  me  the  humblest  note  of  those  sad 

strains 
Drawn  forth  by  pressure  of  his  gilded  chains, 
As  a  chance  sunbeam  from  his  memory  fell 
U  pon  the  Sabine  Farm  he  loved  so  well ; 
Or  when  the  prattle  of  Bandusia's  spring 
Haunted  his  ear — he  only  listening — 
He  proud  to  please,  above  all  rivals,  fit 
To  win  the  palm  of  gaiety  and  wit ; 
He,  doubt  not,  with  involuntary  dread, 
Shrinking  from  each  new  favour  to  be  shed, 
By  the  World's   Ruler,   on  his  honoured 
head ! 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene, 
Such  earnest  longings  and  regrets  as  keen 
Depressed  the  melancholy  Cowley,  laid 
Under  a  fancied  yew-tree's  luckless  shade  ; 
A  doleful  bower  for  penitential  song, 
Where  Man  and  Muse  complained  of  mutual 

wrong ; 
While  Cam's  ideal  current  glided  by, 
And  antique  Towers   nodded   their  fore- 
heads high, 
Citadels  dear  to  studious  privacy. 
But  Fortune,  who  had  long  been  used  to 

sport 
With  this  tried  Servant  of  a  thankless  Court, 
Relenting  met  his  wishes  ;  and  to  You 
The  remnant  of  his  days  at  least  was  true  ; 
You,  whom,  though  long  deserted,  he  loved 

best ; 
You,  Muses,  Books,  Fields,  Liberty,  and 
Rest! 


But  happier  they  who,  fixing  hope  and  aim 
On  the  humanities  of  peaceful  fame, 
Enter  betimes  with  more  than  martial  fire 
The  generous  course,  aspire,  and  still  aspire; 
Upheld  by  warnings  heeded  not  too  late 
Stifle  the  contradictions  of  their  fate, 
And  to  one  purpose  cleave,  their  being's 
godlike  mate  ! 

Thus,  gifted  Friend,  but  with  the  placid 

brow 
That  Woman  ne'er  should  forfeit,  keep  thy 

vow ; 
With  modest  scorn  reject  whate'er  would 

blind 
The  ethereal  eyesight,  cramp  the  winged 

mind  ! 
Then,  with  a  blessing  granted  from  above 
To  every  act,  word,  thought,  and  look  of 

love, 
Life's  book  for  Thee  may  lie  unclosed,  till 

age 
Shall  with  a  thankful  tear  bedrop  its  latest 

page.* 


EVENING  VOLUNTARIES 


CALM  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose 
Day's   grateful   warmth,   tho'    moist   with 

falling  dews. 
Look  for  the  stars,  you'll  say  that  there  are 

none  ; 
Look  up  a  second  time,  and,  one  by  one, 


'  *  There  is  now,  alas !  no  possibility  of  the 
anticipation,  with  which  the  above  Epistle  con- 
cludes, being  realised  :  nor  were  the  verses  ever 
seen  by  the  Individual  for  whom  they  were  in- 
tended. She  accompanied  her  husband,  the 
Rev.  Wm.  Fletcher,  to  India,  and  died  of  cho- 
lera, at  the  age  of  thirty-two  or  thirty-three 
years,  on  her  way  from  Shalapore  to  Bombay, 
deeply  lamented  by  all  who  knew  her. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  ardent,  her  piety  stead- 
fast ;  and  her  great  talents  would  have  enabled 
her  to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  difficult  path 
of  life  to  which  she  had  been  called.  The 
Opinion  she  entertained  of  her  own  performances, 
given  to  the  world  under  her  maiden  name, 
Jewsbury,  was  modest  and  humble,  and,  indeed, 
far  below  their  merits  ;  as  is  often  the  case 
with  those  who  are  making  trial  of  their  powers 
with  a  hope  to  discover  what  they  are  best 
fitted  for.  In  one  quality — viz.,  quickness  in 
the  motions  of  her  mind,  she  was  in  the  author's 
estimation  unequalled. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


537 


You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery 

light, 
And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight. 
The  birds,  of  late  so  noisy  in  their  bowers, 
Warbled  a  while   with   faint  and   fainter 

powers, 
But  now  are  silent  as  the  dim-seen  flowers  : 
Nor  does  the  Village  Church-clock's  iron 

tone 
The  time's  and  season's  influence  disown  ; 
Nine  beats  distinctly  to  each  other  bound 
In  drowsy  sequence  ;  how  unlike  the  sound 
That,  in  rough  winter,  oft  inflicts  a  fear 
On  fireside  Listeners,  doubting  what  they 

hear  ! 
The  Shepherd,  bent  on  rising  with  the  sun, 
Had  closed  his  door  before  the  day  was 

done, 
And  now  with  thankful  heart  to  bed  doth 

creep, 
And  join  his  little  Children  in  their  sleep. 
The  Bat,  lured  forth  where  trees  tha  lane 

o'ershade, 
Flits  and  reflits  along  the  close  arcade  ; 
Far-heard  the  Dor-hawk  chases  the  white 

Moth 
With  burring  note,  which  Industry  and  Sloth 
Might  both  be  pleased  with,    for  it  suits 

them  both. 
Wheels  and  the  tread  of  hoofs  are  heard 

no  more  ; 
One  Boat  there  was,  but  it  will  touch  the 

shore 
With  the  next  dipping  of  its  slackened  oar ; 
Faint  sound,  that,  for  the  gayest  of  the 

gay, 
Might  give  to  serious  thought  a  moment's 

sway, 
As  a  last  token  of  Man's  toilsome  day  1 


n. 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 

That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  Party-strife  ; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a  sigh 

Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by  ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor 

Slave 
Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon's 

cave, 
Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be  ;  nor  do  words, 
Which  practised  Talent  readily  affords, 
Prove   that    her    hand    has   touched   re- 
sponsive chords  ; 
Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move 
With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 


The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dares  to  take 
Life's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's 

sake  ; 
Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished 

bent 
Of  all  the  truly  Great  and  all  the  Innocent. 
Rut  who  is  innocent  ?   By  grace  divine, 
Not  otherwise,  O  Nature  !  we  are  thine 
Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degre 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 
To  all  that  Earth  from  pensive  hearts  is 

stealing, 
And    Heaven   is   now   to  gladdened  eyes 

revealing, 
Add  every  charm  the  Universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo 
Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed  ; 
No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded 

field. 
Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace, 
If  He,  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts 

cease, 
Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 
Come  not  to  speed  the  Soul's  deliverance  ; 
To  the  distempered  Intellect  refuse 
His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse. 


(by  the  side  of  rydal  mere.) 

The  Linnet's  warble,   sinking  towards  a 

close, 
Hints  to  the  Thrush  'tis  time  for  their 

repose  ; 
The  shrill-voiced  Thrush  is  heedless,  and 

again 
The  Monitor  revives  his  own  sweet  strain  ; 
But  both  will  soon  be  mastered,  and  the 

copse 
Be  left  as  silent  as  the  mountain-tops, 
Ere  some  commanding  Star  dismiss  to  rest 
The  throng  of  Rooks,  that  now,  from  twig 

or  nest, 
(After  a  steady  flight  on  home-bound  wings, 
And  a  last,   ame  of  mazy  hoverings 
Around  their  ancient  grove)  with  cawing 

noise 
Disturb  the  liquid  music's  equipoise. 
O  Nightingale  !   Who  ever  heard  thy  song 
Might  here  be  moved,  till  Fancy  grows  so 

strong 
That  listening  sense  is  pardonably  cheated 
Where  wood  or  stream  by  thee  was  never 

greeted. 


538 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Surely,  from  fairest  spots  of  favoured  lands, 
Were  not  some  gifts  withheld  by  jealous 

hands, 
This  hour  of  deepening  darkness  here  would 

be, 
As  a  fresh  morning  for  new  harmony  ; 
And  Lays  as  prompt  would  hail  the  dawn 

of  night  ; 
A  dawn  she  has  both  beautiful  and  bright, 
When  the  East  kindles  with  the  full  moon'b 

light. 

V/anderer  by  spring  with  gradual  pro- 
gress led, 
For  sway  profoundly  felt  as  widely  spread  ; 
To  king,  to  peasant,  to  rough  sailor,  dear, 
And  to  the  soldier's  trumpet-wearied  ear  ; 
How  welcome  wouldst  thou  be  to  this  green 

Vale 
Fairer  than  Tempe !  Yet.  sweet  Nightingale! 
From  the  warm  breeze  that  bears  thee  on 

alight 
At  will,  and  stay  thy  migratory  flight ; 
Build,  at  thy  choice,  or  sing,  by  pool  or 

fount, 
Who  shall  complain,  or  call  thee  to  account  ? 
The  wisest,  happiest,  of  our  kind  are  they 
That  ever  walk  content  with  Nature's  way, 
God's  goodness  measuring  bounty  as  it  may ; 
For  whom  the  gravest  thought  of  what  they 

miss, 
Chastening  the  fulness  of  a  present  bliss, 
Is  with  that  wholesome  office  satisfied, 
While  unrepining  sadness  is  allied 
In  thankful  bosoms  to  a  modest  pride. 


Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge— the- 

Mere 
Seems  firm  as  solid  crystal,  breathless,  clear, 
And  motionless  ;  and,  to  the  gazer's  eye, 
Deeper  than  Ocean,  in  the  immensity 
Of  its  vague  mountains  and  unreal  sky  ! 
But,  from  the  process  in  that  still  retreat, 
Turn  to  minuter  changes  at  our  feet ; 
Observe  how  dewy  Twilight  has  withdrawn 
The  crowd  of  daisies  from  the  shaven  lawn, 
And  has  restored  to  view  its  tender  green, 
That,  while  the  sun  rode  high,  was  lost 

beneath  their  dazzling  sheen. 
— An  emblem  this  of  what  the  sober  Hour 
Can  do  for  minds  disposed  to  feel  its  power  ! 
Tims  oft,  when  we  in  vain  have  wished  away 
The  petty  pleasures  of  the  garish  day, 
Meek  Eve  shuts  up  the  whole  usurping  host 


(Unbashful  dwarfs  each  glittering  at  his 

post) 
And  leaves  the  disencumbered  spirit  free 
To  reassume  a  staid  simplicity. 
Tis  well — but  what  are  helps  of  time  and 

place, 
When  wisdom  stands  in  need  of  nature's 

grace  ; 
Why  do  good  thoughts,  invoked  or  not, 

descend, 
Like  Angels  from  their  bowers,  our  virtues 

to  befriend  ; 
If  yet  To-morrow,  unbelied,  may  say, 
"  I  come  to  open  out,  for  fresh  display, 
The  elastic  vanities  of  yesterday?" 


The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned 
hill, 

And  sky  that  danced  among  those  leaves, 
are  still ; 

Rest  smooths  the  way  for  sleep ;  in  field 
and  bower 

Soft  shades  and  dews  have  shed  their 
blended  power 

On  drooping  eyelid  and  the  closing  flower  ; 

Sound  is  there  none  at  which  the  faintest 
heart 

Might  leap,  the  weakest  nerve  of  supersti- 
tion start ; 

Save  when  the  Owlet's  unexpected  scream 

Pierces  the  ethereal  vault ;  and  'mid  the 
gleam 

Of  unsubstantial  imagery — the  dream, 

From  the  hushed  vale's  realities,  transferred 

To  the  still  lake,  the  imaginative  Bird 

Seems,  'mid  inverted  mountains,  not  un- 
heard. 

Grave    Creature !     whither,    while    the 

moon  shines  bright 
On  thy  wings  opened  wide  for  smoothest 

flight, 
Thou  art  discovered  in  a  roofless  tower, 
Rising  from  what  may  once  have  been  a 

lady's  bower  : 
Or  spied  where  thou  sitt'st  moping  in  thy 

mew 
At  the  dim  centre  of  a  churchyard  yew  ; 
Or,  from  a  rifted  crag  or  ivy  tod 
Deep  in  a  forest,  thy  secure  abode, 
Thou  giv'st,  for  pastime's  sake,  by  shriek 

or  shout, 
A  nuzzling  notice  of  thy  whereabout ; 


mSCFLLANEOUS  POEMS. 


539 


May  the  night  never  come,  the  day  be  seen, 
When  I  shall  scorn  thy  voice  or  mock  thy 

mien  ! 
In  classic  apes  men  perceived  a  soul 
Of  sapience  in  thy  aspect,  headless  Owl ! 
Thee  Athens   reverenced  in   the  studious 

grove ;  (Jove, 

And,  near  the  golden  sceptre  grasped  by 
I  lis  Eagle's  favourite  perch,   while  round 

him  sate 
The  Gods  revolving  the  decrees  of  Fate, 
Thou,  too,  wert  present  at  Minerva's  side — 
Hark  to  that  second  larum  !  far  and  wide 
The  elements  have  heard,   and  rock  and 

cave  replied. 


VI. 

THE  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire, 
Flung  back  from  distant  climes  a  stream- 
ing fire, 
Whose  blaze  is   now  subdued   to   tender 

gleams, 
Prelude  of  night's  approach  with  soothing 

dreams. 
Look  round  ;  —of  all  the  clouds  not  one  is 

moving ; 
'Tis   the  still  hour   of    thinking,    feeling, 

loving. 
Silent,  and  steadfast  as  the  vaulted  sky, 
The  boundless  plain  of  waters  seems  to 

lie  : — 
Comes  that  low  sound  from  breezes  rustling 

o'er 
The  grass-crowned  headland  that  conceals 

the  shore ! 
No,  'tis  the  earth-voice  of  the  mighty  sea, 
Whisperinghow  meek  and  gentle  he  can  be ! 

Thou  Power  supreme  !  who,  arming  to 
rebuke 
Offenders,  dost  put  off  the  gracious  look, 
And  clothe  thyself  with  terrors  like  the  flood 
Of  ocean  roused  into  his  fiercest  mood, 
Whatever  discipline  thy  Will  ordain 
For  the  brief  course  that  must  for  me  re- 
main ; 
Teach  me  with  quick-eared  spirit  to  rejoice 
Jn  admonitions  of  thy  softest  voice  ! 
Whate'er  the  path  these  mortal  feet  may 
trace,  [thy  grace, 

Breathe  through  my  soul  the  blessing  of 
Glad,  through  a  perfect  love,  a  faith  sincere 
Drawn  from  the  wisdom  that  begins  with 

fear ; 
Glad  to  expand,  and,  for  a  season,  free 
From  finite  cares,  to  rest  absorbed  in  Thee  ! 


(  I?Y   THE   SEA-SIDE.) 

The  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to 

rest, 
And  the  wild  storm  hath  somewhere  found 

a  nest  ; 
Air  slumbers — wave  with  wave  no  longer 

strives, 
Only  a  heaving  of  the  deep  survives, 
A  tell-tale  motion  !  soon  will  it  be  laid, 
And  by  the  tide  alone  the  water  swayed. 
Stealthy  withdrawings,  interminglings  mild 
Of  light  with  shade  in  beauty  reconciled — 
Such  is  the  prospect  far  as  sight  can  range, 
The   soothing  recompence,    the   welcome 

change. 
Where  now  the  ships  that  drove  before  the 

blast, 
Threatened   by    angry   breakers    as   they 

passed  ; 
And  by  a  train  of  flying  clouds  bemocked  ; 
Or,  in  the  hollow  surge,  at  anchor  rocked 
As  on  a  bed  of  death  ?  Some  lodge  in  peace, 
Saved  by  His  care  who  bade  the  tempest 

cease  ; 
And  some,   too  heedless  of  past  danger, 

court 
Fresh  gales  to  waft  them  to  the  far-off  port; 
Rut  near,  or  hanging  sea  and  sky  between, 
Not  one  of  all  those  winged  Powers  is  seen, 
Seen  in  her  course,   nor   'mid   this   quiet 

heard  ; 
Yet  oh  !  how  gladly  would  the  air  be  stirred 
By  some  ackowledgment   of  thanks   and 

praise, 
Soft  in  its  temper  as  those  vesper  lays 
Sung  to  the  Virgin  while  accordant  oars 
Urge  the  slow  bark  along  Calabrian  shores; 
A  sea-born  service  through  the  mountains 

felt 
Till  into  one  loved  vision  all  things  melt : 
Or  like  those  hymns  that  soothe  with  graver 

sound 
The  gulfy  coast  of  Norway  iron-bound  ; 
And,  from  the  wide  and  open  Baltic,  rise 
With  punctual  care,  Lutherian  harmonies 
Hush,  not  a  voice  is  here  !  but  why  repine, 
Now  when  the  star  of  eve  comes  forth  to 

shine 
On  British  waters  with  that  look  benign? 
Ye  mariners,    that  plough   your  onward 

way, 
Or  in  the  haven  rest,  or  sheltering  bay, 
May  silent  thanks  to  at  least  God  be  given 
With  a  full  heart,  "  our  thoughts  are  heard 

in  hpaven  !" 


540 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE   LABOURER'S    NOON-DAY 
HYMN. 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn, 
And  he  accepts  the  punctual  hymn 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim. 

Nor  will  he  turn  his  ear  aside 
From  holy  offerings  at  noontide  : 
Then  here  reposing  let  us  raise 
A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

What  though  our  burthen  be  not  light 
We  need  not  toil  from  morn  to  night ; 
The  respite  of  the  mid-day  hour 
Is  in  the  thankful  Creature's  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest, 
That,  drawn  from  this  one  hour  of  rest, 
Are  with  a  ready  heart  bestowed 
Upon  the  service  of  our  God  1 

Why  should  we  crave  a  hallowed  spot  ? 
An  Altar  is  in  each  man's  cot, 
A  Church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 
Its  living  roof  above  our  heads. 

Look  up  to  Heaven  !  the  industrious  Sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run  ; 
He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray, 
But  our  immortal  Spirits  may. 

Lord  !  since  his  rising  in  the  East, 
If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed, 
Guide,  from  thy  love's  abundant  source, 
What  yet  remains  of  this  day's  course  : 

Help  with  thy  grace,  through  life's  short  day 
Our  upward  and  our  downward  way  ; 
And  glorify  for  us  the  west, 
When  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 


A  WREN'S  NEST. 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds 
In  field  or  forest  with  nice  care, 

Is  none  that  with  the  little  Wren's 
In  snugness  may  compare. 

No  door  the  tenement  requires, 
And  seldom  needs  a  laboured  roof ; 

is  it  to  the  fiercest  sun 
Impervious  and  storm-proof. 

So  warm,  so  beautiful  withal, 
In  perfect  fitness  for  its  aim, 

That  to  the  Kind  by  special  grace 
Their  instinct  surely  came. 


And  when  for  their  abodes  they  seek 

An  opportune  recess, 
The  Hermit  has  no  finer  eye 

For  shadowy  quietness. 

These  find,  'mid  ivied  Abbey  walls, 
A  canopy  in  some  still  nook  ; 

Others  are  pent-housed  by  a  brae 
That  overhangs  a  brook. 

There  to  the  brooding  Bird  her  Mate 
Warbles  by  fits  his  low  clear  song  ; 

And  by  the  busy  Streamlet  both 
Are  sung  to  all  day  long. 

Or  in  sequestered  lanes  they  build, 
Where,  till  the  flitting  Bird's  return, 

Her  eggs  within  the  nest  repose, 
Like  relics  in  an  urn. 

But  still,  where  general  choice  is  good, 

There  is  a  better  and  a  best  ; 
And,  among  fairest  objects,  some 

Are  fairer  than  the  rest ; 

This,  one  of  those  small  Builders  proved 
In  a  green  covert,  where,  from  out 

The  forehead  of  a  pollard  oak, 
The  leafy  antlers  sprout  ; 

For  She  who  planned  the  mossy  Lodge, 

Mistrusting  her  evasive  skill, 
Had  to  a  Primrose  looked  for  aid 

Her  wishes  to  fulfil. 

High  on  the  trunk's  projecting  brow, 
And  fixed  an  infant's  span  above 

The  budding  flowers,  peeped  forth  the  nest 
The  prettiest  of  the  grove  ! 

The  treasure  proudly  did  I  show 

To  some  whose  minds  without  disdain 

Can  turn  to  little  things,  but  once 
Looked  up  for  it  in  vain  : 

'Tis  gone — a  ruthless  Spoiler's  prey, 
Who  heeds  not  beauty,  love,  or  song, 

'Tis  gone  !  (so  seemed  it)  and  we  grieved 
Indignant  at  the  wrong. 

Just  three  days  after,  passing  by 
In  clearer  light  the  moss-built  cell 

I  saw,  espied  its  shaded  mouth, 
And  felt  that  all  was  well. 

The  Primrose  for  a  veil  had  spread 
The  largest  of  her  upright  leaves  ; 

And  thus,  for  purposes  benign, 
A  simple  Flower  deceives. 


SONNETS. 


541 


Concealed  from  friends  who  might  disturb 

Thy  quiet  with  no  ill  intent, 
Secure  fnom  evil  eyes  and  hands 

On  barbarous  plunder  bent, 

Rest,  mother-bird  !  and  when  thy  young 
Take  flight,  and  thou  art  free  to  roam, 

When  withered  is  the  guardian  flower, 
And  empty  thy  late  home, 

Think  how  yc  prospered,  thou  and  thine, 

Amid  the  unviolated  grove 
Housed  near  the  growing  primrose  tuft 

In  foresight,  or  in  love. 


SONNETS. 


COMPOSED  OR  SUGGESTED  DURING  A 
TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND  IN  THE  SUMMER 
OF    1833. 

[Having  been  prevented  by  the  lateness  of  the 
season,  in  1831,  from  visiting  Staffa  and  Iona, 
the  author  made  these  the  principal  objects  of 
a  short  tour  in  the  summer  of  1833,  of  which 
the  following  series  of  sonnets  is  a  Memorial. 
The  course  pursued  was  down  the  Cumber- 
land river  Derwent,  and  to  Whitehaven ; 
thence  (by  the  Isle  of  Man,  where  a  few  days 
were  passed)  up  the  Frith  of  Clyde  to  Gree- 
nock, then  to  Oban,  Staffa,  Iona  ;  and  back 
towards  England,  by  Loch  Awe,  Inverary, 
Loch  Goil-head,  Greenock,  and  through  parts 
of  Renfrewshire,  Ayrshire,  and  Dumfries- 
shire to  Carlisle,  and  thence  up  the  river 
Eden,  and  homewards  by  Ullswater.] 

I. 

Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels !  that  have  grown 
And  spread  as  if  ye  knew  that  days  might 

come 
When  ye  would  shelter  in  a  happy  home, 
On  this  fair  Mount,  a  Poet  of  your  own, 
One    who   ne'er  ventured   for  a   Delphic 

crown 
To  sue  the  God  ;  but,  haunting  your  green 

shade 
All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to 

braid 
(Jround-flowers.beneath  your  guardianship, 

self  sown. 
Farewell  !    no    Minstrels  now  with   harp 

new-strung 
For  summer  wandering  quit  their  house- 
hold bowers  ; 
Yet  not  for  this  wants  Poesy  a  tongue 
To  cheer  the  Itinerant  on  whom  she  pours 
Her  spirit,  while  he  crosses  lonely  moors, 
Or  musing  sits  forsaken  halls  among. 


Why  should   the   Enthusiast,   journeying 

through  this  Isle, 
Repine  as  if  his  hour  were  come  too  late  ? 
Not  unprotected  in  her  mouldering  state, 
Antiquity  salutes  him  with  a  smile, 
'Mid  fruitful  fields  that  ring  with  jocund 

toil, 
And    pleasure-grounds    where  Taste,   re- 
fined Co-mate 
Of  Truth  and  Beauty,  strives  to  imitate, 
Far  as  she  may,  primeval  Nature's  style. 
Fair  land  !  by  Time's  parental  love  made 

free, 
Ry  social  Order's  watchful  arms  embraced, 
With  unexampled  union  meet  in  thee, 
For  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the 

past  ; 
With  golden  prospect  for  futurity, 
If  what  is  rightly  reverenced  may  last. 


They  called  Thee  merry  England,  in  old 

time  ; 
A  happy  people  won  for  thee  that  name 
With  envy  heard  in  many  a  distant  clime 
And,  spite  of  change,  for  me  thou  keep'sl 

the  same 
Endearing  title,  a  responsive  chime 
To  the  heart's  fond  belief,  though  some 

there  are 
Whose  sterner  judgments  deem  that  word 

a  snare 
For  inattentive  Fancy,  like  the  lime 
Which  foolish  birds  are  caught  with.  Can, 

I  ask, 
This  face  of  rural  beauty  be  a  mask 
For  discontent,  and  poverty,  and  crime  ; 
These  spreading  towns  a  cloak  for  lawless 

will ; 
Forbid   it,    Heaven! — that    "merry  Eng- 
land" still 
May  be  thy  rightful  name,  in  prose  and 

rhyme  ! 


TO  THE  RIVER  GRETA,  NEAR  KESWICK. 

Greta,  what  fearful  listening  !  when  huge 

stones 
Rumble  along  thy  bed,  block  after  block  : 
Or,  whirling  with  reiterated  shock, 
Combat,    while    darkness    aggravates   the 

groans  : 
But  if  thou  (like  Cocytus  from  the  moans 


542 


SONNETS 


Heard  on  his  rueful  margin)  thence  wert 

named 
The  Mourner,  thy  true  nature  was  defamed, 
And  the  habitual  murmur  that  atones 
For    thy  worst   rage,    forgotten.      Oft  as 

Spring 
Decks,  on  thy  sinuous  banks,  her  thousand 

thrones, 
Seats  of  glad  instinct  and  love's  carolling, 
The  concert,  for  the  happy,  then  may  vie 
With  liveliest  peals  of  birth-day  harmony  : 
To  a  grieved  heart,  the  notes  are  benisons. 


TO   THE   RIVER   DERWENT. 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed, 

loved  stream  ! 
Thou  near  the  Eagle's  nest — within  brief 

sail, 
I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale, 
Where    thy    deep   voice   could   lull    me ! 

Faint  the  beam 
Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 
On  mortal  notice. — Glory  of  the  Vale, 
Such    thy    meek  outset,    with    a    crown, 

though  frail, 
Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 
Of  thy  soft  breath  ! — Less    vivid   wreath 

entwined 
Nemasan  victor's   brow  ;    less  bright  was 

worn, 
Meed  of  some  Roman  chief— in  triumph 

borne 
with  captives  chained  ;  and  shedding  from 

his  car 
The  sunset  splendours  of  a  finished  war 
Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


IN    SIGHT    OF    THE    TOWN    OF 
COCKERMOUTH, 

(where  the  author  was  born,  and  his 
father's  remains  are  laid. 

A  point  of  life  between  my  Parents'  dust, 
And  yours,  my  buried  Little-ones  !  am  I ; 
And  to  those  graves  looking  habitually 
In  kindred  quiet  I  repose  my  trust. 
Death  to  the  innocent  is  more  than  just, 
And,  to  the  sinner,  mercifully  bent  ; 
So  may  I  hope,  if  truly  I  repent 
And  meekly  bear  the  ills  which  bear  I  mus' 


And   You,    my    Offspring !    that    do   still 

remain, 
Yet  may  outstrip  me  in  the  appointed  race, 
If  e'er,  through  fault  of  mine,  in  mutual 

pain 
We  breathed  together  for  a  moment's  space, 
The   wrong,    by  love   provoked,   let  love 

arraign, 
And  only  love  keep  in  your  hearts  a  place. 


ADDRESS    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    OF 
COCKERMOUTH   CASTLE. 

Thou  look'st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondlj 

think, 
Poet  !  that,  stricken  as  both  are  by  years, 
We,    differing   once  so    much,    are    now 

Compeers, 
Prepared,  when  each  has  stood  his  time, 

to  sink 
Into  the  dust.     Erewhile  a  sterner  link 
United  us  ;  when  thou,  in  boyish  play, 
Entering  my  dungeon,  didst  become  a  prey 
To  soul-appalling  darkness.     Not  a  blink 
Of  light  was  there  ; — and  thus  did  I,  thy 

Tutor, 
Make  thy  young  thoughts  acquainted  with 

the  grave ; 
While    thou    wert    chasing    the    winged 

butterfly 
Through  my  green  courts  ;  or  climbing,  a 

bold  suitor, 
Up  to  the  flowers  whose  golden  progeny 
Still  round  my  shattered  brow  in  beauty 

wave. 


VIII. 


NUNS  WELL,    BRIGHAM. 

THE  cattle  crowding  round  this  beverage 
clear 

To  slake  their  thirst,  with  reckless  hoofs 
have  trod 

The  encircling  turf  into  a  barren  clod  ; 

Through    which   the    waters   creep,   then 
disappear, 

Born  to  be  lost  in  Derwent  flowing  near  ; 

Yet,  o'er  the  brink,  and  round  the  lime- 
stone-cell 

Of  the  pure  spring  (they  call  it  the  ' 
Well," 

Name    that   first   struck    by   chance    my 
startled  ear) 


S0NXVT8. 


543 


A  tender  Spirit  broods—  the  pensive  Shade 
Of  ritual  honours  to  this  Fountain  paid 
By  hooded  Votaries  with  saintly  cheer  ; 
Albeit  oft  the  Virgin-mother  mild 
Looked  down  with  pity  upon  eyes  beguiled 
Into  the  shedding  of  "  too  soft  a  tear." 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

(on  the  banks  of  the  derwf.nt.) 
Pastor  and  Patriot  1  at  whose  bidding  rise 
These  modest  Walls,  amid  a  flock  that 

need 
For  one  who  comes  to  watch  them  and  to 

feed 
A  fixed  abode,  keep  down  presageful  sighs. 
Threats  which    the   unthinking  only    can 

despise, 
Perplex  the  Church  ;  but  be  thou  firm,— 

be  true 
To   thy  first   hope,   and  this    good    work 

pursue, 
Poor  as  thou  art.     A  welcome  sacrifice 
Dost  Thou  prepare,  whose  sign  will  be  the 

smoke 
Of  thy  new  hearth  ;  and  sooner  shall  its 

wreaths, 
Mounting  while  earth  her  morning  incense 

breathes, 
From  wandering  fiends  of  air  receive  ayoke, 
And  straightway  cease  to  aspire,  than  God 

disdain 
This  humble  tribute  as  ill-timed  or  vain. 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 

(landing  at  the  mouth  of  the  dtovent, 
workington.) 

Dear   to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces 

vowed, 
The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  she 

wore  ; 
And  to  the   throng    how   Vouchingly  she 

bowed 
That  hailed  her  landing  on  the  Cumbrian 

shore  ; 
Bright  as   a   Star  (that,    from   a  sombre 

cloud 
Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in   air,  forth 

darts, 
When  a  soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 


The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 
She  smiled  ;  but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian 

Seer, 
Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the 

strand, 
With  step  prelusive  to  a  long  array 
Of  woes  and  degradations  hand  in  ljand, 
Weeping  captivity,  and  shuddering  fear 
Stilled  by   the   ensanguined  block  of  Fo- 

theringay  ! 


XI. 

IN  THF,   CHANNEL,   BETWEEN  THE   COAST 
OF    CUMBERLAND    AND   THE    ISLE    Of 

MAN. 

Ranging    the    Heights    of    Scawfell    or 

Black-coom, 
In  his  lone  course  the  Shepherd  oft  will 

pause, 
And  strive  to  fathom  the  mysterious  laws 
By  which  the  clouds,  arrayed  in  light  or 

gloom, 
On  Mona  settle,  and  the  shapes  assume 
Of  all  her  peaks  and  ridges.     What  He 

draws 
From  sense,   faith,    reason,   fancy,   of  the 

cause 
He  will  take  with  him  to  the  silent  tomb  : 
Or,  by  his  fire,  a  Child  upon  his  knee, 
Haply  the  untaught  Philosopher  may  speak 
Of  the  strange  sight,  nor  hide  his  theory 
That  satisfies  the  simple  and  the  meek, 
Blest  in  their  pious  ignorance,  though  weak 
To  cope  with  Sages  undevoutly  free. 


AT  SEA   OFF  THE   ISLE    OF   MAN. 

Bold  words  affirmed,  in  days  when  faith 

was  strong, 
That  no  adventurer's  bark  had  power  to 

gain 
These  shores  if  he  approached  them  bent 

on  wrong  ; 
For,  suddenly  up-conjured  from  the  Main, 
Mists  rose  to  hide  the  Land— that  search, 

though  long 
And  eager,  might  be  still  pursued  in  vain. 
O  Fancy,  what  an  age  was  that  for  song  ! 
That  age,  when  not  by  laws  inanimate, 
As  men  believed,  the  waters  were  impelled, 
The  air  controlled,  the  stars  their  courses 

held, 
But  element  and  orb  on  acts  did  wait 


544 


SONNETS. 


Of   Powers    endued    with    visible    form, 

instinct 
With  will,  and  to  their  work  by  passion 

linked. 


Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recall? 
To  reinstate  wild  fancy  would  we  hide 
Truths  whose  thick  veil  Science  has  drawn 

aside. 
No, — let  this  Age,  high  as  she  may,  install 
In  her  esteem  the  thirst  that  wrought  man's 

fall, 
The  universe  is  infinitely  wide, 
And  conquering  Reason,  if  self-glorified, 
Can  nowhere  move  uncrossed  by  some  new 

wall 
Or  gulf  of  mystery,  which  thou  alone, 
Imaginative  Faith  !  canst  overleap, 
In  progress  toward  the  fount  of  Love, — the 

throne 
Of  Power,  whose  ministering  Spirits  records 

keep 
Of  periods  fixed,  and  laws  established,  less 
Flesh  to  exalt  than  prove  its  nothingness. 


ON    ENTERING   DOUGLAS    BAY,    ISLE 
OF   MAN. 

"  Dignum  laude  virum  Musa  vetat  mori." 

The  feudal  Keep,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn, 
Even  when  they  rose  to  check  or  to  repel 
Tides  of  aggressive  war,  oft  served  as  well 
Greedy  ambition,  armed  to  treat  with  scorn 
Just  limits  ;  but  yon  Tower,  whose  smiles 

adorn 
This  perilous  bay,  stands  clear  of  all  offence; 
Blest  work  it  is  of  love  and  innocence, 
A  Tower  of  refuge  to  the  else  forlorn. 
Spare  it,  ye  waves,  and  lift  the  mariner, 
Struggling  for  life,  into  its  saving  arms  ! 
Spare,  too,  the  human  helpers  !    Do   they 

stir 
'Mid  your  fierce  shock  like  men  afraid  to 

die? 
No,  their  dread  service  nerves  the  heart  it 

warms, 
And  they  are  led  by  noble  HILLARY. 


XV. 

BY  THE  SEA-SHORE,    ISLE  Of  MAN. 

Why  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling 

brine 
With  wonder,  smit  by  its  transparency, 
And  all-enraptured  with  its  purity  ? 
Because    the    unstained,    the    clear,     the 

crystalline, 
Have  ever  in  them  something  of  benign  ; 
Whether  in  gem,  in  water,  or  in  sky, 
A  sleeping  infant's  brow,  or  wakeful  eye 
Of  a  young  maiden,  only  not  divine. 
Scarcely  the  hand  forbears  to  dip  its  palm 
For  beverage  drawn  as  from  a  mountain 

well  : 
Temptation  centres  in  the  liquid  calm  ; 
Our  daily  raiment  seems  no  obstacle 
To  instantaneous  plunging  in,  deep  Sea  ! 
And  revelling  in  long  embrace  with  Thee. 


ISLE   OF   MAN. 

A  youth  too  certain  of  his  power  to  wade 
On  the  smooth  bottom  of  this  clear  bright 

sea, 
To  sight  so  shallow,  with  a  bather's  glee 
Leapt  from  this  rock,  and  surely,  had  not 

aid 
Been  near,  must  soon  have  breathed  out 

life,  betrayed 
By  fondly  trusting  to  an  element 
Fair,  and  to  others  more  than  innocent  ; 
Then  had  sea-nymphs  sung  dirges  for  hirn 

laid 
In  'peaceful  earth  :  for,  doubtless,  he  was 

frank, 
Utterly  in  himself  devoid  of  guile  ; 
Knew  not  the  double-dealing  of  a  smile  ; 
Nor  aught  that  makes  men's  promises  a 

blank, 
Or  deadly  snare  :  and  He  survives  to  bless 
The  Power  that  saved  him  in  his  strange 

distress. 


THE   RETIRED  MARINE  OFFICER,  ISLE 
OF   MAN. 

Not  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  time  too 

keen, 
Grief  that  devouring  waves  had  caused, 

nor  guilt 
Which  they  had  witnessed,   swayed   the 

man  who  built 


SONNETR. 


545 


This  homestead,  placed  where  nothing 
could  be  seen, 

Naught  heard  of  ocean,  troubled  or  serene. 

A  tired  Ship-soldier  on  paternal  land, 

That  o'er  the  channel  holds  august  com- 
mand, 

The  dwelling  raised, — a  veteran  Marine  ; 

Who,  in  disgust,  turned  from  the  neigh- 
bouring sea 

To  shun  the  memory  of  a  listless  life 

That  hung  between  two  callings.  May  no 
strife 

More  hurtful  here  beset  him,  doom'd, 
though  free, 

Self-doom 'd  to  worse  inaction,  till  his  eye 

Shrink  from  the  daily  sight  of  earth  and 
sky  ! 


BY     A     RETIRED     MARINER, 
(a  friend  of  the  author.) 

From  early  youth  I  ploughed  the  restless 

Main, 
My  mind  as  restless  and  as  apt  to  change  ; 
Through    every    clime   and   ocean   did   I 

range, 
In  hope  at  length  a  competence  to  gain  ; 
For  poor  to  Sea  I  went,   and  poor  I  still 

remain. 
Year  after  year  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
And  hardships  manifold  did  I  endure, 
For  Fortune  on  me  never  deign 'd  to  smile  ; 
Yet  I  at  last  a  resting-place  have  found, 
With  just  enough  life'scomforts  to  procure, 
In  a  snug  Cove  on  this  our  favoured  Isle, 
A    peaceful    spot    where     Nature's     gifts 

abound  ; 
Then  sure  I  have  no  reason  to  complain, 
Though  poor  to  Sea  I  went,  and  poor  I 

still  remain 


To  cast  a  soul-subduing  shade  on  me, 
A  grey-haired,  pensive,  thankful  Refugee, 
A  shade  but  with  some  sparks  of  heavenly 

fire  [I  note 

Once  to  these  cells  vouchsafed.    And  when 
The  old  Tower's  brow  yellowed  as  with 

the  beams 
Of  sunset  ever  there,  albeit  streams 
Of  stormy  weather-stains  that  semblance 

wrought, 
I  thank  the  silent  Monitor,  and  say 
"  Shine  so,  my  aged  brow,  at  all  hours  of 

the  day  1" 


XX. 

TYNWALD   HILL. 

Once  on  the  top  of   Tynwald's   formal 

mound 
(Still    marked    with     green     turf     circles 

narrowing 
Stage  above  stage)  would  sit  this  Island's 

King, 
The   laws    to    promulgate,    enrobed    and 

crowned  ; 
While,  compassing  the  little  mount  around, 
Degrees    and   Orders  stood,    each   under 

each  ; 
Now,    like  to  things   within  fate's  easiest 

reach, 
The  power  is  merged,  the  pomp  a  grave 

has  found. 
Off  with  yon  cloud,  old  Snafell  !  that  thine 

eye 
Over  three  Realms  may   take  its  widest 

range  ; 
And   let,    for   them,    thy    fountains    utter 

strange 
Voices,  thy  winds  break  forth  in  prophecy, 
If    the   whole   State   must    suffer    mortal 

change, 
Like  Mona's  miniature  of  sovereignty. 


XIX. 

AT   BALA-SALA,    ISLE   OF   MAN. 

(supposed  to  be  written  bv  a  friend 
OF  THE  author. 

Broken  in  fortune  ;  but  in  mind  entire 
And  sound  in  principle,  I  seek  repose 
Where  ancient  trees  this  convent  pile  en- 
close,* 
In  ruin  beautiful.     When  vain  desire 
Intrudes  on  peace,  I  pray  the  eternal  Sire 


Rushen  Abbey. 


Despond  who  will — /  heard  a  voice  ex- 
claim, 
' '  Though  fierce  the  assault,  and  shatter'd 

the  defence, 
It  cannot  be  that  Britain's  social  frame, 
The  glorious  work  of  time  and  providence, 
Before  a  flying  season's  rash  pretence, 
Should  fall  ;  that  She,  whose  virtue  put  to 

shame, 
When    Europe    prostrate  lay,   the    Con- 
queror's aim, 


546 


SONNETS. 


Should  perish,  self-subverted.    Black  and!  Impotent  wish!  which  reason  would  de- 

dense  spise 

The  cloud  is  ;  but   brings  that  a  day  of    If  the  mind  knew  no  union  of  extremes, 


doom 
To  Liberty  ?     Her  sun  is  up  the  while, 
That  orb  whose  beams  round  Saxon  Alfred 

shone, 
Then  laugh,  ye  innocent  Vales  !  ye  Streams, 

sweep  on, 
Nor  let  one  billow  of  our  heaven-blest  Isle 
Toss   in    the    fanning    wind    a    humbler 

plume." 


XXII. 


IN   THE   FRITH    OF   CLYDE,    AILSA   CRAG. 
(JULY  17,  1833.) 

Since  risen  from  ocean,  ocean  to  defy, 
Appeared  the   Crag  of  Ailsa  ;    ne'er   did 

morn 
With  gleaming  lights  more  gracefully  adorn 
His  sides,  or  wreathe  with  mist  his  fore- 
head high  : 
Now,    faintly    darkening    with   the  sun's 

eclipse, 
Still  is  he  seen,  in  lone  sublimity, 
Towering  above  the  sea  and  little  ships  ; 
For  dwarfs  the  tallest  seem  while  sailing  by, 
Each  for  her  haven  ;  with  her  freight  of 

Care, 
Rleasure,  or  Grief,  and  Toil  that  seldom 

looks 
Into  the  secret  of  to-morrow's  fare  ; 
Though  poor,  yet  rich,  without  the  wealth 

of  books, 
Or  aught  that  watchful  Love  to  Nature  owes 
For  her  mute  Powers,  fix'd  Forms,   and 

transient  Shows. 


ON   THE   FRITH   OF  CLYDE. 

(in  a  steam-boat.) 

ARRAN  !  a  single-crested  Teneriffe, 
A  St.  Helena  next — in  shape  and  hue  ; 
Varying   her   crowded   peaks   and   ridges 

blue  ; 
Who  but  must  covet  a  cloud-seat  or  skiff 
Built  for  the  air,  or  winged  Hippogriff, 
That  he  might  fly,  where  no   one   could 

pursue, 
From  this  dull  Monster  and  her  sooty  crew; 
And,  like  a  God,  light  on  thy  topmost  cliff. 


No    natural    bond   between    the    boldest 

schemes 
Ambition  frames,  and  heart-humilities. 
Beneath  stern  mountains  many  a  soft  vale 

lies, 
And   lofty  springs    give    birth    to    lowly 

streams. 


ON   REVISITING   DUNOLLY   CASTLE. 

The  captive  Bird  was  gone  ; — to  cliff  or 
moor  [storm  ; 

Perchance    had   flown,    delivered   by   the 
Or  he  had  pined,  and  sunk  to  feed  the 
worm  :  [tower, 

Him  found  we  not ;  but,  climbing  a  tall 
There  saw,  impaved  with  rude  fidelity 
Of  art  mosaic,  in  a  roofless  floor, 
An  Eagle  with  stretched  wings,  but  beam- 
less  eye — 
An  Eagle  that  could  neither  wail  nor  soar. 
Effigies  of  the  Vanished,  (shall  I  dare 
To  call  thee  so  ?)  or  symbol  of  past  times, 
That   towering  courage,  and   the  savage 

deeds 
Those  times  were  proud  of,  take  Thou  too 

a  share, 
Not  undeserved,  of  the  memorial  rhymes 
That  animate  my  way  where'er  it  leads  ! 


THE   DUNOLLY   EAGLE. 

Not  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  cliff,  he  flew; 
But  when  a  storm,  on  sea  or  mountain  bred, 
Came  and  delivered  him,  alone  he  sped 
Into  the  Castle-dungeon's  darkest  mew. 
Now,  near  his  Master's  house  in  open  view 
He  dwells,  and  hears  indignant  tempests 

howl,  [Fowl, 

Kennelled  and  chained.  Ye  tame  domestic 
Beware  of  him  !     Thou,  saucy  Cockatoo, 
Look  to  thy  plumage   and  thy  life  !     The 

Roe,  [quarry  ; 

Fleet    as   the   west  wind,    is   for  him  no 
Balanced  in  ether  he  will  never  tarry, 
Eyeing  the  sea's  blue  depths.     Poor  Bird  I 

even  so 
Doth  Man  of  Brother-man  a  creature  make, 
That  clings  to  slavery  for  its  own  sad  sake 


SONNETS. 


517 


CAVE  OF  STAFFA. 

We  saw,  but  surely,  in  the  motley  crowd, 
Not  One   of  us   has  felt,    the   far-famed 

sight  ; 
How  could  we  feel  it?    each   the  other's 

blight, 
Hurried  and  hurrying,  volatile  and  loud. 
Q  for  those  motions  only  that  invite 
The  Ghost  of  Fingal  to  his  tuneful  Cave  ! 
By  the  breeze  entered,  and  wave  after  wave 
Softly  embosoming  the  timid  light  ! 
And  by  one  Votary  who  at  will  might  stand 
Gazing,  and  take  into  his  mind  and  heart, 
With  undistracted  reverence,  the  effect 
Of  those  proportions  where  the  almighty 

hand 
That  made  the  worlds,  the  sovereign  Archi- 
tect, 
Has  deigned  to  work  as  if  with  human  Art ! 


CAVE  OF  STAFFA. 

Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  Spot — fit 

school  [assign 

For  the  presumptuous  thoughts  that  would 
Mechanic  laws  to  agency  divine; 
And,    measuring  heaven  by  earth,  would 

overrule 
Infinite  Power.     The  pillared  vestibule, 
Expanding  yet  precise,  the  roof  embewed, 
Might  seem  designed  to  humble  Mac.  vvhen 

proud 
Of  his  best  workmanship  by  plan  and  tool. 
Down-bearing    with    his    whole    Atlantic 

weight 
Of  tide  and  tempest  on  the  Structure's  base, 
And  flashing  upwards  to  its  topmost  height, 
Ocean  has  proved  its  strength,  and  of  its 

grace 
In  calms  is  conscious,  finding  for  its  freight 
Of  softest  music  some  responsive  place. 


XXVIII. 
CAVE  OF   STAFFA. 

Ye  shadowy  Beings,  that  have  rights  and 

claims 
In  every  cell  of  Fingal's  mystic  Grot, 
Where  are  ye?    Driven  or  venturing  to  the 

spot,  [Frames, 

Our  Fathers  glimpses  caught  of  your  thin 
And,  by  your  mien  and  bearing,  knew  your 

names ; 


And  they  could  hear  his  ghostly  song  who 

trod 
Earth,  till  the  flesh  lay  on  him  like  a  load, 
While  he  struck  his  desolate  harp  without 

hopes  or  aims. 
Vanished  ye  are,  but  subject  to  recall  ; 
Why  keep  we  else  the  instincts  whose  dread 

law  [saw. 

Ruled  here  of  yore,  till  what  men  felt  they 
Not  by  black  arts  but  magic  natural ! 
If  eyes  be  still  sworn  vassals  of  belief, 
Yon  light  shapes  forth  a  Bard,  that  shade 

a  Chief. 


FLOWERS  ON  THE  TOP  OF  THE  PILLARS 
AT  THE  ENTRANCE  OF  THE  CAVE. 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast, 
Children  of  Summer  !  Ye  fresh  flowers  that 

brave 
What  Summer  here  escapes  not,  the  fierce 

wave, 
And  whole  artillery  of  the  western  blast, 
Battering  the  Temple's  front,  its  long-drawn 

nave 
Smiting,  as  if  each  moment  were  the  last. 
But  ye,  bright  flowers,  on  frieze  and  archi- 
trave 
Survive,  and  once  again  the  Pile  stands  fast, 
Calm  as  the  Universe,  from  specular  Towers 
Of  heaven  contemplated  by  Spirits  pure — . 
Suns  arrid  their  systems,  diverse  yet  sustained 
In  syirmietry,  and  fashioned  to  endure, 
Unhurt,   the  assault  of  Time  with  all  his 

hours, 
As  the  supreme  Artificer  ordained. 


On  to  Iona! — What  can  she  afford 
To  us  save  matter  for  a  thoughtful  sigh, 
Heaved  over  ruin  with  stability 
In  urgent  contrast?    To  diffuse  the  Word 
(Thy    Paramount,    mighty    Nature !     and 

Time's  Lord) 
Her  Temples  rose,  'mid  pagan  gloom;  but 

why, 
Even  for  a  moment,  has  our  verse  deplored 
Their  wrongs,  since  they  fulfilled  their  des- 
tiny? 
And  when,  subjected  to  a  common  doom 
Of  mutability,  those  far-famed  Piles 
Shall  disappear  from  both  the  sister  Isles, 


548 


sonnets: 


Tona's  Saints,  forgetting  not  past  days, 
Gailands  shall  wear  of  amaranthine  bloom, 
While  heaven's  vast  sea  of  voices  chants 
their  praise. 


(upon  landing.) 
With  earnest  look,  to  every  voyager, 
Some  ragged  child  holds  up  for  sale  his 

store 
Of  wave-worn  pebbles,    pleading   on   the 

shore 
Where   once   came   monk   and   nun  with 

gentle  stir, 
Blessings  to  give,  news  ask,  or  suit  prefer. 
But  see  yon    neat  trim  church,  a  grateful 

speck       "* 
Of  novelty  amid  this  sacred  wreck — 
Nay  spare  thy  scorn,  haughty  Philosopher! 
Fallen  though  she  be,  this  Glory  of  the  west, 
Still  on  her  sons  the  beams  of  mercy  shine  ; 
And  ' '  hopes,  perhaps  more  heavenly  bright 

than  thine, 
A  grace  by  thee  unsought  and  unpossest, 
A  faith  more  fixed,  a  rapture  more  divine 
Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  rest." 


THE   BLACK   STONES   OF   IONA. 

[See  Martin's  Voyage  among  the  Western 
Isles.] 

Here  on  their  knees  men  swore:  the  stones 

were  black, 
Black  in  the  People's  minds  and  words,  yet 

they 
Were  at  that  time,  as  now,  in  colour  grey. 
But  what  is  colour,  if  upon  the  rack 
Of  conscience  souls  are  placed  by  deeds  that 

lack 
Concord  with  oaths?  What  differ  night  and 

day 
Then,  when  before  the  Perjured  on  his  way 
Hell  opens,  and  the  heavens  in  vengeance 

crack 
Above  his  head  uplifted  in  vain  prayer 
To  Saint,  or  Fiend,  or  to  the  Godhead  whom 
He  had  insulted — Peasant,  King,  or  Thane. 
Fly  where  the  culprit  may,  guilt  meets  a 

doom; 
And,  from  invisible  worlds  at  need  laid  bare, 
Come  links  for  social  order's  awful  chain. 


Homeward  we  turn.     Isle  of  Columba's 

Cell, 
Where  Christian  piety's  soul-cheering  spark 
(Kindled  from  Heaven  between  the  light 

and  dark 
Of  time)  shone  like  the  morning  star,  fare- 
well !— 
Remote  St.  Kilda,  art  thou  visible? 
No — but  farewell  to  thee,  beloved  sea-mark 
For  many  a  voyage  made  in  Fancy's  bark, 
When,  with  more  hues  than  in  the  rainbow 

dwell 
Thou  a  mysterious  intercourse  dost  hold ; 
Extracting  from  clear  skies  and  air  serene, 
And  out  of  sun-bright  waves,  a  lucid  veil, 
That  thickens,  spreads,  and,  mingling  fold 

with  fold 
Makes  known,  when  thou  no  longer  canst 

be  seen, 
Thy  whereabout,  to  warn  the  approaching 

sail. 


GREENOCK. 

"Per  me  si  va  nella  Citta  dolente." 

We  have  not  passed  into  a  doleful  City, 
We  who  were  led  to-day  down  a  grim  Dell, 
By  some  too  boldly  named  "  the  Jaws  of 

Hell:" 
Where  be  the  wretched  Ones,  the  sights  for 

pity? 
These  crowded  streets  resound  no  plaintive 

ditty: 
As  from  the  hive  where  bees  in  summerdwell, 
Sorrow  seems  here  excluded;  and  that  knell, 
It  neither  damps  the  gay,   nor  checks  the 

witty. 
Too  busy  Mart !  thus  fared  it  with  old  Tyre, 
Whose    Merchants    Princes   were,  whose 

decks  were  thrones: 
Soon  may  the  punctual  sea  in  vain  respire 
To  serve  thy  need,  in  union  with  that  Clyde 
Whose  nursling  current  brawls  o'er  mossy 

stones, 
The  poor,  the  lonely  herdsman's  joy  and 

oride. 


"There!"  said  a  stripling,  pointing  with 

meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half 

concealed, 
"  Is  Mossgiel  farm ;  and  that's  the  very  field 


SONNETS. 


549 


Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy."    Far 

and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched   sea-ward,  while, 

descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath    "the   random  bield   of  clod   or 

stone" 
Myriads   of  Daisies   have  shone   forth  in 

flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural 

hour 
I  lave  passed  away,  less  happy  than  the  One 
That  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare  died  to 

prove 
The  tender  charm  of  Poetry  and  Love. 


FANCY   AND   TRADITION. 

The  Lovers  took  within  this  ancient  grove 
Their  last  embrace;    beside  those  crystal 

springs 
The  Hermit  saw  the  Angel  spread  his  wings 
For  instant  flight;  the  Sage  in  yon  alcove 
Sate  musing;  on  that  hill  the  Bard  would 

rove, 
Not  mute,  where  now  the  Linnet  only  sings: 
Thus  everywhere  to  truth  Tradition  clings, 
Or  Fancy  localises  Powers  we  love. 
Were  only  History  licensed  to  take  note 
Of  things  gone  by,  her  meagre  monuments 
Would  ill  suffice  for  persons  and  events : 
There  is  an  ampler  page  for  man  to  quote, 
A  readier  book  of  manifold  contents, 
Studied  alike  in  palace  and  in  cot. 


THE   RIVER   EDEN,    CUMBERLAND. 

EDEN  !  till  now  thy  beauty  had  I  viewed 
By  glimpses  only,  and  confess  with  shame 
That  verse  of  mine,   whate'er  its  varying 

mood, 
Repeats  but  once  the  sound  of  thy  sweet 

name  ; 
Vet    fetched  from    Paradise    that    honour 

came, 
Rightfully  borne ;    for  Nature  gives  thee 

flowers 
That  have  no  rivals  among  British  bowers  ; 
And  thy  bold  rocks  are  worthy  of  their  fame. 


Measuring  thy  course,  fair  Stream  !  at 
length  I  pay 

To  my  life's  neighbour  dues  of  neighbour- 
hood ; 

But  I  have  traced  thee  on  thy  winding  way 

With  pleasure  sometimes  by  the  thought 
restrained 

That  things  far  off  are  toiled  for,  while  a 
good 

Not  sought,  because  too  near,  is  seldom 
gained. 


MONUMENT   OF  MRS.  HOWARD, 

[by  Nollekens.) 

IN  WETHERAL  CHURCH,  NEAR  CORBY,  ON 
THE  BANKS  OF  THE  EDEN. 

Stretched  on  the  dying  Mother's  lap, 

lies  dead 
Her  new-born  Babe,  dire  issue  of  bright 

hope  ! 
But  Sculpture  here,  with  the  divinest  scope 
Of  luminous  faith,  heavenward  hath  raised 

that  head 
So  patiently  ;  and  through  one  hand  has 

spread 
A  touch  so  tender  for  the  insensate  Child, 
Earth's  lingering  love  to  parting  reconciled. 
Brief  parting — for  the  spirit  is  all  but  fled  ; 
That  we,  who  contemplate  the  turns  of  life 
Through  this  still  medium,   are  consoled 

and  cheered  ; 
Feel  with  the  Mother,  think  the  severed 

Wife 
Is  less  to  be  lamented  than  revered  ; 
And  own  that  Art,  triumphant  over  strife 
And  pain, hath  powers  to  Eternity  endeared. 


XXXIX. 


Tranquillity  !    the  sovereign  aim  wert 

thou 
In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore  ; 
Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny  of  yore 
The  Tragic  Muse  thee  served  with  thought- 
ful vow  ; 
And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow 
Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 
Peace  to  the  Mourner's  soul  ;  but  He  who 

wore 
The  crown  of  thorns  around  his  bleeding 
brow 


550 


SONNETS. 


Warmed  our  sad  being  with  his  glorious 

light : 
Then  Arts,  which  still  had  drawn  a  soften- 
ing grace 
From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite, 
Communed  with  that  Idea  face  to  face  ; 
And  move  around  it  now  as  planets  run, 
Each  in  its  orbit,  round  the  central  Sun. 


The  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon 

be  weary; 
Down  from  the  Pennine  Alps*  how  fiercely 

sweeps 
Croglin,  the  stately  Eden's  tributary  ! 
He  raves,  or  through  some  moody  passage 

creeps 
Plotting  new  mischief — out  again  he  leaps 
Into  broad  light,  and  sends,  through  regions 

airy, 
That  voice  which  soothed  the  Nuns  while 

on  the  steeps 
They  knelt  in  prayer,   or  sang  to  blissful 

Mary. 
Thaf    jnion   ceased  :    then,  cleaving  easy 

walks 
Through  crags,  and  smoothing  paths  beset 

with  danger, 
Came  studious  Taste  ;  and  many  a  pensive 

Stranger 
Dreams  on  the  banks,  and  to  the  river  talks. 
What  change  shall  happen  next  to  Nunnery 

Dell? 
Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway,  tell ! 


XLI. 


STEAMBOATS,  VIADUCTS,  AND  RAILWAYS. 

Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at 

war 
With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this, 
Shall  ye,  by  Poets  even,  be  judged  amiss  ! 
Nor  shall  your  presence,  howsoe'er  it  mar 
The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a  bar 
To  the  Mind's  gaining  that  prophetic  sense 
Of  future  change,  that  point  of  vision  whence 
May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye  are. 


In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  disown 
In  your  harsh  features,  Nature  doth  embrace 
Her  lawful  offspring  in   Man's  art ;   and 

Time, 
Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o'er  his  brothel 

Space, 
Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the  proffered 

crown 
Of  hope,   and  smiles  on  you  with  cheer 

sublime. 


Lowther  !  in  thy  majestic  Pile  are  seen 
Cathedral  pomp  and  grace,  in  apt  accord 
With  the  baronial  castle's  sterner  mien  ; 
Union  significant  of  God  adored, 
And   charters   won   and   guarded   by   the 

sword 
Of  ancient  honour  ;  whence  that  goodly 

state 
Of  Polity  which  wise  men  venerate, 
And  will  maintain,  if  God  his  help  afford. 
Hourly  the  democratic  torrent  swells  ; 
For  airy  promises  and  hopes  suborned 
The  strength  of  backward-looking  thoughts 

is  scorned. 
Fall  if  ye  must,  ye  Towers  and  Pinnacles, 
With  what  ye  symbolise,  authentic  Story 
Will  say,  Ye  disappeared  with  England's 

Glory  ! 


*  The  Chain  of  Crossfell,  which  parts  Cum- 
berland and  Westmoreland  from  Northumber- 
land and  Durham. 


XLIII. 

TO   THE   EARL  OF  LONSDALE. 

"Magistratus  indicat  virum." 

Lonsdale  !  it  were  unworthy  of  a  Guest, 
Whose  heart  with  gratitude  to  thee  inclines, 
If  he  should  speak,  by  fancy  touched,  of 

signs 
On  thy  Abode  harmoniously  imprest, 
Yet  be  unmoved  with  wishes  to  attest 
How  in  thy  mind  and  moral  frame  agree 
Fortitude  and  that  Christian  Charity 
Which,    filling,    consecrates    the    human 

breast. 
And  if  the  Motto  on  thy  'scutcheon  teach 
With  truth,  "The  Magistracy  shows 

the  Man  ;" 
That  searching  test  thy  public  course  has 

stood  ; 
As  will  be  owned  alike  by  bad  and  good, 
Soon  as  the  measuring  of  life's  little  span 
Shall  place  thy  virtues  out  of  Envy's  reach. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


551 


TO   CORDELIA   M , 

HALLSTEADS,   ULLSWATEK. 

Not  in  the  mines  beyond  the  western  main, 
You  tell  me,  Delia  !  was  the  metal  sought, 
Which  a  fine  skill,  of  Indian  growth,  has 

wrought 
Into  this  flexible  yet  faithful  Chain  ; 
Nor  is  it  silver  of  romantic  Spain 
You  say,  but  from  Helvellyn's  depths  was 

brought, 
Our  own  domestic  mountain.     Thing  and 

thought 
Mix  strangely  ;  trifles  light,  and  partly  vain, 
Can  prop,  as  you  have  learnt,  our  nobler 

being : 
Yes,  Lady,  while  about  your  neck  is  wound 
(Your  casual  glance  oft  meeting)  this  bright 

cord, 
What  witchery,   for  pure  gifts  of  inward 

seeing, 
Lurks   in   it,    Memory's   Helper,    Fancy's 

Lord, 
For  precious   tremblings   in   your   bosom 

found  1 


CONCLUSION. 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eye 
To  pace  the  ground  if  path  there  be  or  none, 
While  a  fair  repose  round  the  traveller  lies, 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 
Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 
The  work  of  Fancy  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  stepping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that 

day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the 

Muse; 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of 

our  way, 
Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her 

dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   IN  THE   ALBUM  OF  THE 
COUNTESS   OF  . 

Nov.  s,  1834. 

Lady  !  a  Pen,  perhaps,  with  thy  regard, 
Among   the   Favoured,    favoured   not  the 

least, 
Left,  'mid  the  Records  of  this  Book  in- 
scribed, 
Deliberate  traces,  registers  of  thought 
■And  feeling,  suited  to  the  place  and  time 
That  gave  them  birth  : — months  passed, 

and  still  this  hand, 
That  had  not  been  too  timid  to  imprint 
Words  which  the  virtues  of  thy  Lord  in- 
spired, 
Was  yet  not  bold  enough  to  write  of  Thee. 
And  why  that  scrupulous  reserve  ?  In  sooth 
The  blameless  cause  lay  in  the  Theme  itself. 
Flowers   are   there   many  that   delight   to 

strive 
With  the  sharp  wind,  and  seem  to  court 

the  shower, 
Yet  are  by  nature  careless  of  the  sun 
Whether  he  shine  on  them  or  not  ;  and 

some, 
Where'er  he  moves  along  the  unclouded 

sky, 
Turn  a  broad  front  full  on  his  flattering 

beams: 
Others  do  rather  from  their  notice  shrink, 
Loving  the  dewy  shade, — a  humble  Band, 
Modest  and  sweet,  a  Progeny  of  earth, 
Congenial  with  thy  mind  and  character, 
High-born  Augusta  ! 

Towers,  and  stately  Groves, 
Bear  witness  for  me  ;  thou,  too,  Mountain- 
stream  ! 
From    thy  most  secret  haunts ;  and    ye 

Parterres, 
Which  she  is  pleased  and  proud  to  call  her 

own  ; 
Witness  how  oft  upon  my  noble  Friend 
I  Mute  offerings,  tribute  from  an  inward  sense 
I  Of  admiration  and  respectful  love, 
I  Have  waited,  till  the  affections  could  no 
more 
Endure  that  silence,  and  broke  out  in  song, 
Snatches  of  music  taken  up  and  dropt 
Like  those  self-solacing  those  under  notes 
Trilled  by  the  redbreast,  when  autumnal 

leaves 
Are  thin  upon  thebough.   Mine,  only  mine, 
The  pleasure  was,  and  no  one  heard  the 
praise, 

2  P 


552 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Checked,    in    the    moment    of    its    issue 

checked  ; 
And  reprehended  by  a  fancied  blush 
From  the  pure  qualities  that  called  it  forth. 

Thus  Virtue  lives  debarred  from  Virtue's 

meed  ; 
Thus,  Lady,  is  retiredness  a  veil 
That,    while  it   only  spreads  a  softening 

charm 
O'er  features  looked  at  by  discerning  eyes, 
Hides  half  their  beauty  from  the  common 

gaze; 
And  thus,  even  on  the  exposed  and  breezy 

hill 
Of  lofty  station,  female  goodness  walks, 
When  side  by  side  with  lunar  gentleness 
As  in  a  cloister.     Yet  the  grateful  Poor 
(Such  the  immunities  of  low  estate, 
Plain  Nature's  enviable  privilege, 
Her  sacred  recompence  for  many  wants) 
Open  their  hearts  before  Thee,  pouring  out 
All  that  they  think  and  feel,  with  tears  of 

j°y; 

And  benedictions  not  unheard  in  Heaven: 
And   friend   in   the   ear   of  friend,  where 

speech  is  free 
To  follow  truth,  is  eloquent  as  they. 

Then  let  the  Book  receive  in  these  prompt 

lines 
A  just  memorial;  and  thine  eyes  consent 
To  read  that  they,  who  mark  thy  course, 

behold 
A  life  declining  with  the  golden  light 
Of  summer,  in  the  season  of  sere  leaves  ; 
See    cheerfulness   undamped    by  stealing 

Time ; 
See  studied  kindness  flow  with  easy  stream, 
Illustrated  with  inborn  courtesy; 
<\nd  an  habitual  disregard  of  self 
Balanced  by  vigilance  for  others'  weal. 

And  shall  the  verse  not  tell  of  lighter  gifts 
With  these  ennobling  attributes  conjoined 
And  blended,  in  peculiar  harmony, 
By  Youth's  surviving  spirit  ?    What  agile 

grace ! 
A  nymph-like  liberty,  in  nymph-like  form, 
Beheld  with  wonder;  whether  floor  or  path 
Thou  tread,  or  on  the  managed  steed  art 

borne, 
Fleet  as  the  shadows,  over  down  or  field, 
Driven  by  strong  winds  at  play  among  the 

clouds. 

Yet  one  word  more — one  farewell  word-  - 
a  wish 
Which  came,  but  it  has.passed  into  a  prayer, 


That,  as  thy  sun  in  brightness  is  declining, 
So,  at  an  hour  yet  distant  for  their  sakes 
Whose  tender  love,  here  faltering  on  the 

way 
Of  a  diviner  love,  will  be  forgiven, — 
So  may  it  set  in  peace,  to  rise  again 
For  everlasting  glory  won  by  faith. 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST. 


List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph's  Tower* 

At  eve  ;  how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira-force,  that  torrent  hoarse, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen  ! 
Fit  music  for  a  solemn  vale  ! 

And  holier  seems  the  ground 
To  him  who  catches  on  the  gale 
The  spirit  of  a  mournful  tale, 

Embodied  in  the  sound. 


Not  far  from  that  fair  site  whereon 

The  Pleasure-house  is  reared, 
As  Story  says,  in  antique  days, 

A  stern-brow'd  house  appeared  ; 
Foil  to  a  jewel  rich  in  light 

There  set,  and  guarded  well ; 
Cage  for  a  bird  of  plumage  bright, 
Sweet-voiced,  nor  wishing  for  a  flight 

Beyond  her  native  dell. 


To  win  this  bright  bird  from  her  cage, 

To  make  this  gem  their  own, 
Came  Barons  bold,  with  store  of  gold, 

And  Knights  of  high  renown  ; 
But  one  she  prized,  and  only  One  ; 

Sir  Eglamore  was  he  ; 
Full  happy  season,  when  was  known, 
Ye  Dales  and  Hills  !  to  you  alone 

Their  mutual  loyalty — 

4- 

Known  chiefly,  Aira  !  to  thy  glen, 
Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly  ; 

Where  Passion  caught  what  Nature  taught, 
That  all  but  love  is  folly  ; 


*  A  pleasure-house  built  by  the  late  Duke  of 
Norfolk  upon  the  banks  of  Ullswater.  Force 
is  the  word  used  in  the  Lake  District  for  Water- 
fall. 


MISCELLANEO US  PO  EMS. 


553 


Where  Fact  with  Fancy  stooped  to  play, 

Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret  ; 
To  trouble  hours  that  winged  their  way, 
As  if  through  an  immortal  day 
Whose  sun  could  never  set. 

5- 
But  in  old  times  Love  dwelt  not  long 

Sequcstcr'd  with  repose  ; 
Rest  throve  the  Breol  chaste  desire, 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  foes. 
"A  conquering  lance  is  beauty's  test, 

And  proves  the  lover  true  ;" 
So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  pressed 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast, 

And  looked  a  blind  adieu. 


They  parted. — Well  with  him  it  fared 

Through  wide-spread  regions  errant  ; 
A  knight  of  proof  in  love's  behoof, 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant  : 
And  she  her  happiness  can  build 

On  woman's  quiet  hours  ; 
Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and 

shield, 
The  solace  beads  and  masses  yield, 

And  needlework  and  flowers. 


Yet  Vilest  was  Emma  when  sne  neard 

Her  Champion's  praise  recounted  ; 
Though  brain  would  swim,  and  eyes  grow 
dim, 

And  high  her  blushes  mounted  ; 
Or  when  a  bold  heroic  lay 

She  warbled  from  full  heart : 
Delightful  blossoms  for  the  May 
Of  absence  !  but  they  will  not  stay, 

Born  only  to  depart. 


Hope  wanes  with  her,  while  lustre  fills 

Whatever  path  he  chooses  ; 
As  if  his  orb,  that  owns  no  curb, 

Received  the  light  hers  loses. 
He  comes  not  back  ;  an  ampler  space 

Requires  for  nobler  deeds  ; 
He  ranges  on  from  place  to  place, 
Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace 

But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 


His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 
Her  spirit  finds  its  centre  ; 

Clear  sight  she  has  of  what  he  was, 
And  that  would  now  content  her. 


"Still  is  he  my  devoted  knight  >" 

The  tear  in  answer  flows  ; 
Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  weight; 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  the  night 

Is  empty  of  repose. 


In  sleep  she  sometimes  walked  abroad, 

1  teep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending 
Like  that  pale  Queen  whose  hands  are  seen 

With  fancied  spots  contending  ; 
But  s/ic  is  innocent  of  blood, — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  while  through  the  wood 
She  thrids  her  way,  the  sounding  Flood 

Her  melancholy  lure  ! 


While  'raid  the  fern-brake  sleeps  the  doe, 

And  owls  alone  are  waking, 
In  white  arrayed,  glides  on  the  Maid 

The  downward  pathway  taking, 
That  leads  her  to  the  torrent's  side 

And  to  a  holly  bower  ; 
By  whom  on  this  still  night  descried f 
By  whom  in  that  lone  place  espied  ? 

By  thee,  Sir  Eglamore  ! 


A  wandering  Ghost,  so  thinks  the  Knight, 

His  coming  step  has  thwarted, 
Beneath  the  boughs  that  heard  their  vows, 

Within  whose  shade  they  parted. 
Hush,  hush,  the  busy  Sleeper  see  ! 

Perplexed  her  fingers  seem, 
As  if  they  from  the  holly  tree 
Green  twigs  would  pluck,  as  rapidly 

Flung  from  her  to  the  stream. 

13- 

What  means  the  Spectre  ?    Why  intent 

To  violate  the  Tree, 
Thought  Eglamore,  by  which  I  swore 

Unfading  constancy? 
Here  am  I,  and  to-morrow's  sun, 

To  her  I  left,  shall  prove 
That  bliss  is  ne'er  so  surely  won 
As  when  a  circuit  has  been  run 

Of  valour,  truth,  and  love. 

14. 

So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood, 
He  moved  with  stealthy  pace; 

And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye, 
He  recognised  the  face  ; 


554 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small, 

Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree, 
Some  muttered  to  the  torrent-fall, — 
"  Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call ; 
I  heard,  and  so  may  he  !" 

IS- 

Soul-shattered  was  the  Knight,  nor  knew 

If  Emma's  Ghost  it  were, 
Or  boding  Shade,  or  if  the  Maid 

Her  very  self  stood  there. 
He  touched,  what  followed  who  shall  tell  ? 

The  soft  touch  snapped  the  thread 
Of  slumber — shrieking  back  she  fell, 
And  the  Stream  whirled  her  down  the  dell 

Along  its  foaming  bed. 

16. 

In  plunged  the   Knight !    when  on  firm 
ground 

The  rescued  Maiden  lay, 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light, 

Confusion  passed  away  ; 
She  heard,  ere  to  the  throne  of  grace 

Her  faithful  Spirit  flew, 
His  voice  ;  beheld  his  speaking  face, 
And,  dying,  from  his  own  embrace. 

She  felt  that  he  was  true 

17- 
So  was  he  reconciled  to  life  : 

Brief  words  may  speak  the  rest  ; 
Within  the  dell  he  built  a  cell, 

And  there  was  Sorrow's  guest  ; 
In  hermits'  weeds  repose  he  found, 

From  vain  temptations  free  ; 
Beside  the  torrent  dwelling — bound 
By  one  deep  heart-controlling  sound, 

And  awed  to  piety. 


Wild  stream  of  Aira,  hold  thy  course, 

Nor  fear  memorial  lays, 
Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade, 

Are  edged  with  golden  rays  ! 
Dear  art  thou  to  the  light  of  Heaven, 

Though  minister  of  sorrow  ; 
Sweet  is  thy  voice  at  pensive  Even  ; 
And  thou,  in  Lovers'  hearts  forgiven, 

Shall  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow  ! 


TO  , 

UPON  THE    BIRTH     OF    HER    FIRST-BORN 
CHILD,    MARCH,    1833. 

"  Turn  porro  puer,  ut  ssevis  projectus  ab  undis 
Navita;  nudus  humi  jacet,"&c. — Lucretius. 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  Sailor  tost 
By  rough  waves  on  a  perilous  coast, 
Lies  the  Babe,  in  helplessness 
And  in  tenderest  nakedness, 
Flung  by  labouring  nature  forth 
Upon  the  mercies  of  the  earth. 
Can  its  eyes  beseech  ?  no  more 
Than  the  hands  are  free  to  implore  : 
Voice  but  serves  for  one  brief  cry, 
Plaint  was  it  ?  or  prophecy 
Of  sorrow  that  will  surely  come  ? 
Omen  of  man's  grievous  doom  ! 

But,  O  Mother  !  by  the  close 
Duly  granted  to  thy  throes  ; 
By  the  silent  thanks  now  tending 
Incense-like  to  Heaven,  descending 
Now  to  mingle  and  to  move 
With  the  gush  of  earthly  love, 
As  a  debt  to  that  frail  Creature, 
Instrument  of  struggling  Nature 
For  the  blissful  calm,  the  peace 
Known  but  to  this  one  release  ; 
Can  the  pitying  spirit  doubt 
That  from  human-kind  springs  out 
From  the  penalty  a  sense 
Of  more  than  mortal  recompence  ? 

As  a  floating  summer  cloud, 
Though  of  gorgeous  drapery  proud, 
To  the  sun-burnt  traveller, 
Or  the  stooping  labourer, 
Ofttimes  makes  its  bounty  known 
By  its  shadow  round  him  thrown  ; 
So,  by  chequerings  of  sad  cheer, 
Heavenly  guardians,  brooding  near, 
Of  their  presence  tell — too  bright 
Haply  for  corporeal  sight ! 
Ministers  of  grace  divine 
Feelingly  their  brows  incline 
O'er  this  seeming  Castaway 
Breathing,  in  the  light  of  day, 
Something  like  the  faintest  breath 
That  has  power  to  baffle  death — 
Beautiful,  while  very  weakness 
Captivates  like  passive  meekness  ! 

And,  sweet  Mother  !  under  warrant 
Of  the  universal  Parent, 
Who  repays  in  season  due 
Them  who  have,  like  thee,  been  true 
To  the  filial  chain  let  down 
From  his  everlasting  throne. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55£ 


Angels  hovering  round  thy  couch, 
With  their  softest  whispers  vouch, 
That,  whatever  griefs  may  fret, 
Cares  entangle,  sins  beset 
This  thy  first-born,  and  with  tears 
Stain  her  cheek  in  future  years, 
Heavenly  succour,  not  denied 
To  the  Babe,  whate'er  betide, 
Will  to  the  Woman  be  supplied  ! 

Mother  !  blest  be  thy  calm  ease  ; 
Blest  the  starry  promises, 
And  the  firmament  benign 
Hallowed  be  it,  where  they  shine  ! 
Yes,  for  them  whose  souls  have  scope 
Ample  for  a  winged  hope, 
And  can  earthward  bend  an  ear 
For  needful  listening,  pledge  is  here, 
That,  if  thy  new-born  Charge  shall  tread 
In  thy  footsteps,  and  be  led 
By  that  other  Guide,  whose  light 
Of  manly  virtues,  mildly  bright, 
Gave  him  first  the  wished-for  part 
In  thy  gentle  virgin  heart, 
Then,  amid  the  storms  of  life 
Presignified  by  that  dread  strife 
Whence  ye  have  escaped  together, 
She  may  look  for  serene  weather  ; 
In  all  trials  sure  to  find 
Comfort  for  a  faithful  mind  ; 
Kindlier  issues,  holier  rest, 
Than  even  now  await  her  prest, 
Conscious  Nursling,  to  thy  breast  ! 


THE  WARNING. 

A   SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING. 
MARCH,    1833. 

List,  the  winds  of  March  are  blowing  ; 
Her  ground-flowers  shrink,  afraid  of  show- 
ing 
Their  meek  heads  to  the  nipping  air, 
Which  ye  feel  not,  happy  pair! 
Sunk  into  a  kindly  sleep. 
We,  meanwhile,  our  hope  will  keep  ; 
And  if  Time  leagued  with  adverse  Change 
(Too  busy  fear  !)  shall  cross  its  range, 
Whatsoever  check  they  bring, 
Anxious  duty  hindering, 
To  like  hope  our  prayers  will  cling. 

1    Thus,  while  the  ruminating  spirit  feeds 
Upon  each  home-event  as  life  proceeds, 
Affections  pure  and  holy  in  their  source 
Gain  a  fresh  impulse,  run  a  livelier  course  ; 


Hopes  that  within  the  Father's  heart  pre- 
vail, 

Are  in  the  experienced  Grandsire's  slow  to 
fail  ; 

And  if  the  Harp  pleased  his  gay  youth,  it 
rings 

To  his  grave  touch  with  no  unready  strings, 

While  thoughts  press  on,  and  feelings 
overflow, 

And  quick  words  round  him  fall  like  flakes 
of  snow. 

Thanks  to  the  Powers  that  yet  maintain 

their  sway, 
And  have  renewed  the  tributary  Lay. 
Truths  of  the  heart  flock  in  with  eager  pace. 
And  Fancy  greets  them  with  a  fond  em- 
brace ; 
Swift  as  the  rising  sun  his  beam  extends 
She  shoots   the    tidings   forth   to   distant 

friends  ; 
Their  gifts  she  hails  (deemed  precious  as 

they  prove 
For  the  unconscious  Babe  an  unbelated 

love !) 
But  from  this  peaceful  centre  of  delight 
Vague  sympathies  have  urged  her  to  take 

flight. 
She  rivals  the  fleet  Swallow,  making  rings 
In  the  smooth  lake  where'er  he  dips  his 

wings : 
— Rapt  into  upper  regions,  like  the  Bee 
That  sucks  from  mountain  heath  her  honey 

fee ; 
Or,  like  the  warbling  Lark  intent  to  shroud 
His  head  in  sunbeams  or  a  bowery  cloud, 
She  soars — and  here  and  there  her  pinions 

rest 
On  proud  towers,  like  this  humble  cottage, 

blest 
With  a  new  visitant,  an  infant  guest  — 
Towers    where    red   streamers     flout    the 

breezy  sky 
In  pomp  foreseen  by  her  creative  eye, 
When  feasts  shall   crowd  the   Hall,    and 

steeple  bells 
Glad  proclamation  make,  and  heights  and 

dells 
Catch  the  blithe  music  as  it  sinks  or  swells  ; 
And  harboured  ships,  whose  pride  is  on 

the  sea, 
Shall  hoist  their  topmast  flags  in  sign  of 

glee, 
Honouring  the  hope  of  noble  ancestry 

But  who  (though  neither  reckoning  ills 
assigned 
j  By  Nature,  nor  reviewing  in  the  mind 


556 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  track  that  was,  and  is,  and  must  be, 

worn 
With  weary  feet  by  all  of  woman  born) — 
Shall  nozv  by  such  a  gift  with  joy  be  moved, 
Nor  feel  the  fulness  of  that  joy  reproved  ? 
Not    He,    whose   last   faint   memory  will 

command 
The  truth  that  Britain  was  his  native  land  ; 
Whose  infant  soul  was  tutored  to  confide 
In  the  cleansed  faith  for  which  her  martyrs 

died  ; 
Whose  boyish  ear  the  voice  of  her  renown 
With   rapture  thrilled  ;    whose  Youth   re- 
vered the  crown 
Of  Saxon  liberty  that  Alfred  wore, 
Alfred,  dear  Babe,  thy  great  Progenitor  ! 
— Not  He,  who  from  her  mellowed  practice 

drew 
His  social  sense  of  just,  and  fair,  and  true  ; 
And  saw,  thereafter,  on  the  soil  of  France 
Rash  Polity  begin  her  maniac  dance, 
Foundations  broken  up,  the  deeps  run  wild, 
Nor  grieved   to    see,     (himself    not    un- 

beguiled)— 
Woke  from   the  dream,   the  dreamer  to 

upbraid, 
And  learn  how  sanguine  expectations  fade 
When  novel  trusts  by  folly  are  betrayed, — 
To  see  presumption,  turning  pale,  refrain 
From  further  havoc,  but  repent  in  vain, — 
Good  aims  lie  down,  and  perish  in  the  road 
Where  guilt    had   urged   them   on,    with 

ceaseless  goad, 
Till  undiscriminating  Ruin  swept 
The    Land,    and   Wrong  perpetual  vigils 

kept ; 
With  proof  before  her  that  on  public  ends 
Domestic  virtue  vitally  depends. 

Can  such  a  one,  dear  Babe !  though 
glad  and  proud 
To  welcome  Thee,  repel  the  fears  that  crowd 
Into  his  English  breast,  and  spare  to  quake 
Not  for  his  own,  but  for  thy  innocent  sake? 
Too  late — or,  should  the  providence  of  God 
Lead,    through   blind  ways    by    sin    and 

sorrow  trod, 
Justice  and  peace  to  a  secure  abode, 
Too  soon — thou  com'st  into  this  breathing 

world  ; 
Ensigns  of  mimic  outrage  are  unfurled. 
Who  shall  preserve  or  prop  the  totterimr 

Realm? 
What  hand  suffice   to  govern   the  state- 
helm? 
If,  in  the  aims  of  men,  the  surest  test 
Of  good  or  bad  (whaxe'er  be  sought  for  or 
profest) 


Lie  in  the  means  required,  or  ways  or- 
dained, 

For  compassing  the  end,  else  never  gained  ; 

Yet  governors  and  governed  both  are  blind 

To  this  plain  truth,  or  fling  it  to  the  wind  ; 

If  to  expedience  principle  must  bow  ; 

Past,  future,  shrinking  up  beneath  the 
incumbent  Now  ; 

If  cowardly  concession  still  must  feed 

The  thirst  for  power  in  men  who  ne'er 
concede ; 

If  generous  Loyalty  must  stand  in  awe 

Of  subtle  Treason,  with  his  mask  of  law  ; 

Or  with  bravado  insolent  and  hard, 

Provoking  punishment,  to  win  reward  ; 

If  office  help  the  factious  to  conspire, 

And  they  who  should  extinguish,  fan  the 
fire — 

Then,  will  the  sceptre  be  a  straw,  the  crown 
j  Sit  loosely,  like  the  thistle's  crest  of  down  ; 
I  To  be  blown  off  at  will,  by  Power  that 
spares  it 

In  cunning  patience,  from  the  head  that 
wears  it. 

Lost  people,  trained  to  theoretic  feud  ; 

Lost  above  all,  ye  labouring  multitude  ! 

Bewildered  whether  ye,  by  slanderous 
tongues 

Deceived,  mistake  calamities  for  wrongs  ; 

And  over  fancied  usurpations  brood, 

Oft  snapping  at  revenge  in  sullen  mood  ; 

Or,  from  long  stress  of  real  injuries  fly 

To  desperation  for  a  remedy  ; 

In  bursts  of  outrage  spread  your  judg- 
ments wide, 

And  to  your  wrath  cry  out,  "Be  thou  our 
guide  ;" 

Or,  bound  by  oaths,  come  forth  to  tread 
earth's  floor 

In  marshalled  thousands,  darkening  street 
and  moor 

With  the  worst  shape  mock-patience  ever 
wore  ; 

Or,  to  the  giddy  top  of  self-esteem 

By  Flatterers  carried,  mount  into  a  dream 

Of   boundless    suffrage,    at    whose    sage 

behest 
Justice  shall  rule,  disorder  be  supprest, 

And  every  man  sit  down  as  Plenty's 
Guest ! 

— O  for  a  bridle  bitted  with  remorse 

To  stop  your  Leaders  in  their  headstrong 
course  ! 

Oh  may  the  Almighty  scatter  with  his  grace 
These  mists,  and  lead  you  to  a  safer  place, 

By  paths  no  human  wisdom  can  fore- 
trace  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


557 


May  He  pour  round  you,  from  worlds  far 

above 
Man's  feverish  passions,  his  pure  light  of 

love, 
That  quietly  restores  the  natural  mien 
To  hope,   and  makes  truth  willing  to  be 

seen  ! 
Else  shall   your  blood-stained  hands    in 

frenzy  reap 
Fields    gaily  sown    when  promises  were 

cheap. 
Why  is  the  Past  belied  with  wicked  art, 
The  Future  made  to  play  so  false  a  part, 
Among  a  people  famed  forstrength  of  mind, 
Foremost  in  freedom,  noblest  of  mankind  ? 
We  act  as  if  we  joyed  in  the  sad  tune 
Storms  make  in  rising,  valued  in  the  moon 
Naught  but  her  changes.    Thus,  ungrateful 

Nation  ! 
If  thou  persist,  and,  scorning  moderation, 
Spread  for  thyself  the  snares  of  tribulation, 
Whom,  then,  shall  meekness  guard?  What 

saving  skill 
Lie  in  forbearance,   strength  in  standing 

still? 
— Soon  shall  the  Widow  (for  the  speed  of 

Time 
Naught  equals  when  the  hours  are  winged 

with  crime) 
Widow,    or  Wif      implore   on  tremulous 

knee, 
From  him  who  judged  her  Lord,  a  like 

decree  ; 
The  skies  will  weep  o'er  old  men  desolate  : 
Ye  little  ones  !  Earth  shudders  at  your  fate, 
Outcasts  and  homeless  orphans 

But  turn,  my  Soul,  and  from  the  sleeping 
Pair 
Learn  thou  the  beauty  of  omniscient  care  ! 
Be  strong  in  faith,  bid  anxious  thoughts  lie 

still  ; 
Seek  for  the  good  and  cherish  it — the  ill 
Oppose,  or  bear  with  a  submissive  will. 


If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track  ; 
If  Freedom,  set,  will  rise  again, 

And  Virtue,  flown,  come  back  ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care  ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear  ! 


SONNET,* 

COMPOSED   AFTER   READING   A   NEWS- 
PAPER OF  THE  DAY. 

"  People  !  your  chains  are  severing  link 

by  link  ; 
Soon  shall  the  Rich  be  levelled  down — the 

Poor 
Meet  them  half  way."    Vain  boast  1  for 

These,  the  more 
They  thus  would  rise,  must  low  and  lower 

sink 
Till,   by   repentance    stung,    they  fear  to 

think; 
While  all  lie  prostrate,  save  the  tyrant  few 
Bent  in  quick  turns  each  other  to  undo, 
And  mix  the  poison,  they  themselves  must 

drink. 
Mistrust  thyself,  vain  Country!  cease  to  cry 
"Knowledge    will     save     me    from    the 

threatened  woe." 
For,    if  than  other  rash   ones  more  thou 

know, 
Yet  on  presumptuous  wing  aG  far  would  fly 
Above  thy  knowledge  as  they  dared  to  go, 
Thou  wilt  provoke  a  heavier  penalty. 


LOVING  AND  LIKING  : 

IRREGULAR   VERSES    ADDRESSED  TO 
A   CHILD. 

[In  the  former  editions  of  the  author's  Miscella- 
neous Poems  are  three  pieces  addressed  to 
Children : — the  following,  a  few  lines  excepted, 
is  by  the  same  Writer  ;  and,  as  it  belongs  to 
the  same  unassuming  class  of  compositions, 
she  has  been  prevailed  upon  to  consent  to  its 
publication.] 

There's  more  in  words  than  I  can  teach  : 

Yet  listen,  Child  ! — I  would  not  preach  ; 

But  only  give  some  plain  directions 

To  guide  your  speech  and  your  affections. 

Say  not  you  love  a  roasted  Fowl, 

But  you  may  love  a  screaming  Owl, 

And,  if  you  can,  the  unwieldy  Toad 

That  crawls  from  his  secure  abode 

Within  the  mossy  garden  wall 

When  evening  dews  begin  to  fall. 

Oh  mark  the  beauty  of  his  eye  : 

What  wonders  in  that  circle  lie  ! 

So  clear,  so  bright,  our  fathers  said 

He  wears  a  jewel  in  his  head  ! 

*  This  Sonnet  ought  to  have  followed  No. 
VII.  in  the  scries  of  1831,  but  was  omitted  by 

mistake. 


558 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  when,  upon  some  showery  day, 
Into  a  path  or  public  way 
A  Frog  leaps  out  from  bordering  grass, 
Startling  the  timid  as  they  pass, 
Do  you  observe  bim,  and  endeavour 
To  take  the  intruder  into  favour  ; 
Learning  from  him  to  find  a  reason 
For  a  light  heart  in  a  dull  season. 
And  you  may  love  him  in  the  pool, 
That  is  for  him  a  happy  school, 
In  which  he  swims,  as  taught  by  nature, 
A  pattern  for  a  human  creature, 
Glancing  amid  the  water  bright, 
And  sending  upward  sparkling  light. 
Nor  blush  if  o'er  your  heart  be  stealing 
A  love  for  things  that  have  no  feeling  : 
The  spring's  first  Rose,  by  you  espied, 
May  fill  your  breast  with  joyful  pride ; 
And  you  may  love  the  Strawberry  Flower, 
And  love  the  Strawberry  in  its  bower ; 
But  when  the  fruit,  so  often  praised 
For  beauty,  to  your  lip  is  raised, 
Say  not  you  love  the  delicate  treat, 
But  like  it,  enjoy  it,  and  thankfully  eat. 
Long  may  you  love  your  pensioner  Mouse, 
Though  one  of  a  tribe  that  torment  the 

house  : 
Nor  dislike  for  her  cruel  sport  the  Cat, 
That  deadly  foe  of  both  mouse  and  rat ; 
Remember  she  follows  the  law  of  her  kind, 
And  Instinct  is  neither  wayward  nor  blind. 
Then  think  of  her  beautiful  gliding  form, 
Her  tread  that  would  not  crush  a  worm, 
And  her  soothing  song  by  the  winter  fire, 
Soft  as  the  dying  throbs  of  the  lyre. 

I  would  not  circumscribe  your  love  : 
It  may  soar   with    the    Eagle  and  brood 

with  the  Dove, 
May  pierce  the  earth  with  the  patient  Mole, 
Or  track  the  Hedgehog  to  his  hole. 
Loving  and  liking  are  the  solace  of  life, 
They    foster    all  joy,   and  extinguish    all 

strife. 
You  love  your  father  and  your  mother, 
Your  grown-up  and  your  baby  brother  ; 
You  love  your  sister,  and  your  friends, 
And  countless  blessings  which  God  sends: 
And  while  these  right  affections  play, 
You  live  each  moment  of  your  day  ; 
They  lead  you  on  to  full  content, 
And  likings  fresh  and  innocent, 
That  store  the  mind,  the  memory  feed, 
And  prompt  to  many  a  gentle  deed  : 
But  likings  come,  and  pass  away ; 
'Tis  love  that  remains  till  our  latest  day  : 
Our  heavenward  guide  is  holy  love, 
And  it  will  be  our  bliss  with  saints  above. 


ST.  BEES, 

SUGGESTED    IN    A    STEAMBOAT    OFF    ST. 

BEES'    HEADS,    ON  THE   COAST  OF 

CUMBERLAND. 

[St.  Bees'  Heads,  anciently  called  the  Cliff  of 
Baruth,  are  a  conspicuous  sea-mark  for  all 
vessels  sailing  in  the  N.E.  parts  of  the  Irish 
Sea.  In  a  bay,  one  side  of  which  is  formed 
by  the  southern  headland,  stand  the  village  of 
St.  Bees  ;  a  place  distinguished  from  very 
early  times,  for  its  religious  and  scholastic 
foundations. 

"  St.  Bees,"  say  Nicholson  and  Burns,  "had 
its  name  from  Bega,  an  holy  woman  from  Ire- 
land, who  is  said  to  have  founded  here,  about 
the  year  of  our  Lord  650,  a  small  monastery, 
where  afterwards  a  church  was  built  in  me- 
mory of  her. 

"  The  aforesaid  religious  house,  being  de- 
stroyed by  the  Danes,  was  restored  by 
William  de  Meschiens,  son  of  Ranulph,  and 
brother  of  Ranulph  de  Meschiens,  first  Earl 
of  Cumberland  after  the  Conquest ;  and  made 
a  cell  of  a  prior  and  six  Benedictine  monks  tc 
the  Abbey  of  St.  Mary  at  York." 

Several  traditions  of  miracles,  connected 
with  the  foundation  of  the  first  of  these  reli- 
gious houses,  survive  among  the  people  of  the 
neighbourhood  ;  one  of  which  is  alluded  to  in 
the  following  Stanzas  :  and  another,  of  a  some- 
what bolder  and  more  peculiar  character,  has 
furnished  the  subject  of  a  spirited  poem  by  the 
Rev.  R.  Parkinson,  M.A.,  late  Divinity  Lec- 
turer of  St.  Bees'  College,  and  Fellow  of  the 
Collegiate  Church  of  Manchester. 

After  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries. 
Archbishop  Grindal  founded  a  free  school  at 
St.  Bees,  from  which  the  counties  of  Cumber- 
land and  Westmoreland  have  derived  great 
benefit ;  and  under  the  patronage  of  the 
Earl  of  Lonsdale,  a  college  has  been  esta- 
blished there  for  the  education  of  ministers  for 
the  English  Church.  The  old  Conventual 
Church  has  been  repaired  under  the  superin- 
tendence of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ainger,  the  Head  of 
the  College ;  and  is  well  worthy  of  being 
visited  by  any  strangers  who  might  be  led  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  this  celebrated  spot. 

The  form  of  stanza  in  the  following  Piece, 
and  something  in  the  style  of  versification,  are 
adopted  from  the  "St.  Monica,"  a  poem  of 
much  beauty  upon  a  monastic  subject,  by 
Charlotte  Smith ;  a  lady  to  whom  English 
verse  is  under  greater  obligations,  than  are 
likely  to  he  either  acknowledged  or  remem- 
bered. She  wrote  little,  and  that  little  unam- 
bitiously,  but  with  true  feeling  for  nature.] 


If  Life  were  slumber  on  a  bed  of  down, 
Toil  unimposed,  vicissitudes  unknown, 
j  Sad  were  our  lot:  no  Hunter  of  the  Hare 
Exults  like  him  whose  javelin  from  the  lair 


MISCELLANEOUS  TOEMS. 


559 


Has  roused  the  Lion;  no  one  plucks  the 

Rose, 
Whose   proffered   beauty  in    safe  shelter 

blows 
'Mid  a  trim  garden's  summer  luxuries, 
With  joy  like  his  who  climbs  on  hands  and 

knees, 
For  some  rare  Plant,  yon  Headland  of  St. 

Bees. 


This  independence  upon  oar  and  sail, 
This  new  indifference  to  breeze  or  gale, 
This  straight-lined  progress,   furrowing  a 

flat  lea, 
And  regular  as  if  locked  in  certainty, 
Depress  the  hours.  Up,  Spirit  of  the  Storm! 
That  Courage  may  find  something  to  per- 
form ; 
That   Fortitude,  whose  blood  disdains  to 

freeze 
At  Danger's  bidding,  may  confront  the  seas, 
Firm  as  the  towering  Headlands  of  St. 
Bees. 


Dread  Cliff  of  Baruth!  that  wild  wish  may 
sleep, 

Bold  as  if  Men  and  Creatures  of  the  Deep 

Breathed  the  same  Element :  too  many 
wrecks 

Have  struck  thy  sides,  too  many  ghastly 
decks 

Hast  thou  looked  down  upon,  that  such  a 
thought 

Should  here  be  welcome,  and  in  verse  en- 
wrought: 

With  thy  stern  aspect  better  far  agrees 

Utterance  of  thanks  that  we  have  past  with 
ease, 

As  Millions  thus  shall  do,  the  Headlands 
of  St.  Bees. 


Yet,  while  each  useful  Art  augments  her 

store, 
What  boots  the  gain  if  Nature  should  lose 

more? 
And  Wisdom,   that  once  held  a  Christian 

place 
In  Man's  intelligence  sublimed  by  grace? 
When  Bega  sought  of  yore  the  Cumbrian 

coast, 
Tempestuous  winds  her  holy  errand  cross'd; 
As  high  and  higher  heaved  the  billows,  faith 
Grew  with  them,  mightier  than  the  powers 

of  death. 


She  knelt  in  prayer — the  waves  their  wrat\,. 

appease; 
And,  from  her  vow  well  weighed  in  Heaven's 

decrees, 
Rose,  where  she  touched  the  strand,  the 

Chauntry  of  St.  Bees. 


"Cruel  of  heart  were  they,  bloody  of  hand," 
Who   in   these  Wilds  then  struggled  for 

command, 
The  strong  were  merciless,  without  hope 

the  weak; 
Till  this  bright  Stranger  came,  fair  as  Day 

break, 
And  as  a  Cresset  true  that  darts  its  length 
Of  beamy  lustre  from  a  tower  of  strength; 
Guiding  the  Mariner  through  troubled  seas, 
And  cheering  oft  his  peaceful  reveries, 
Like  the  fixed  Light  that  crowns  yon  head- 
land of  St.  Bees. 


To  aid  the  Votaress,  miracles  believed 
Wrought   in   men's   minds,    like   miracles 

achieved; 
So  piety  took  root;  and  Song  might  tell 
What  humanizing  Virtues  round  her  Cell 
Sprang  up,  and  spread  their  fragrance  wide 

around ; 
How  savage  bosoms  melted  at  the  sound 
Of  gospel-truth  enchained  in  harmonies 
Wafted  o'er  waves,   or  creeping   through 

close  trees, 
From  her  religious  Mansion  of  St.  Bees. 

7- 
When  her  sweet  Voice,  that  instrument  of 

love, 
Was  glorified,  and  took  its  place,  above 
The  silent  stars,  among  the  angelic  Quire, 
Her  Chauntry  blazed  with  sacrilegious  fire' 
And  perished  utterly;  but  her  good  deeds 
Had   sown  the  spot  that  witnessed  them 

with  seeds 
Which  lay  in  earth  expectant,  till  a  breeze 
With   quickening  impulse  answered   their 

mute  pleas, 
And  lo!  a  statelier  Pile,  the  Abbey  of  St 

Bees. 

8. 

There  were  the  naked  clothed,  the  hungry 

fed; 
And  Charity  extended  to  the  Dead 
Her  intercessions  made  for  the  soul's  rest 
Of  tardy  Penitents;  or  for  the  best 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Among  the  good  (when  love  might  else 

have  slept, 
Sickened,  or  died)  in  pious  memory  kept. 
Thanks  to  the  austere  and  simple  Devotees, 
Who,  to  that  service  bound  by  venial  fees, 
Kept  watch  before  the  Altars  of  St.  Bees. 


Were  not,  in  sooth,  their  Requiems  sacred 

ties 
Woven  out  of  passion's  sharpest  agonies, 
Subdued,  composed,  and  formalized  by  art, 
To  fix  a  wiser  sorrow  in  the  heart? 
The  prayer  for  them  whose  hour  was  past 

away 
Said  to  the  Living,  profit  while  ye  may! 
A  little  part,  and  that  the  worst,  he  sees 
Who  thinks  that  priestly  cunning  holds  the 

keys 
That  best  unlock  the  secrets  of  St.  Bees. 


Conscience,  the  timid  being's  inmost  light, 
Hope  of  the  dawn  and  solace  of  the  night, 
Cheers  these  Recluses  with  a  steady  ray 
In    many  an  hour  when   judgment  goes 

astray. 
Ah!  scorn  not  hastily  their  rule  who  try 
Earth  to  despise,  and  flesh  to  mortify; 
Consume  with  zeal,  in  winged  ecstacies 
Of  prayer  and  praise  forget  their  rosaries, 
Kor  hear  the  loudest  surges  of  St.  Bees. 


Yet  none  so  prompt  to  succour  and  protect 
The  forlorn  Traveller,  or  Sailor  wrecked 
On  the  bare  coast ;  nor  do  they  grudge  the 

boon 
Which  staff  and  cocklehat  and  sandal  shoon 
Claim  for  the  Pilgrim:  and,  though  chidings 

sharp 
May  sometimes  greet  the  strolling  Min- 
strel's harp, 
It  is  not  then  when,  swept  with  sportive  ease, 
It  charms  a  feast-day  throng  of  all  degrees, 
Brightening  the  archway  of  reverend  St. 
Bees. 


How  did  the  Cliffs  and  echoing  Hills  rejoice 
What    time    the     Benedictine    Brethren's 

voice, 
Imploring,  or  commanding  with  meet  pride, 
Summoned  the  Chiefs  to  lay  their  feuds 

aside. 


Ana  unaer  onemest  ensign  serve  the  Lord 
In  Palestine.    Advance,  indignant  Sword  ! 
Flaming  till  thou  from  Paynim  hands  release 
That  Tomb,  dread  centre  of  all  sanctities 
Nursed  in  the  quiet  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

On,  Champions,  on! — But  mark!  the  pass- 
ing Day 
Submits  her  intercourse  to  milder  sway, 
With  high  and  low  whose  busy  thoughts 

from  far 
Follow  the  fortunes  which  they  may  not 

share. 
While  in  Judea  Fancy  loves  to  roam, 
She  helps  to  make  a  Holy-land  at  home: 
The   Star    of  Bethlehem  from   its  sphere 

invites 
To  sound  the  crystal  depth    of    maiden 

rights; 
And  wedded  life,  through  scriptural  mys- 
teries, 
Heavenward  ascends  with  all  her  charities, 
Taught  by  the  hooded  Celibates  of  St.  Bees. 

14. 

Who  with  the  ploughshare  clove  the  barren 
moors, 

And  to  green  meadows  changed  the  swampy 
shores? 

Thinned  the  rank  woods;  and  for  the  cheer- 
ful Grange 

Made  room  where  Wolf  and  Boar  were  used 
to  range? 

Who  taught,  and  showed  by  deeds,  that 
gentler  chains 

Should  bind  the  Vassal  to  his  Lord's  do- 
mains ? 

The  thoughtful  Monks,  intent  their  God  to 
please, 

For  Christ's   dear  sake,   by  human  sym- 
pathies 

Poured  from  the  bosom  of  thy  Chnrch,  St. 
Bees  ! 

IS- 

But  all  availed  not;  by  a  mandate  given 

Through  lawless  will  the  Brotherhood  was 
driven 

Forth  from  their  cells; — their  ancient  House 
laid  low 

In  Reformation's  sweeping  overthrow. 

But  now  once  more  the  local  Heart  revives, 

The  inextinguishable  Spirit  strives. 

Oh  may  that  Power  who  hushed  the  stormy 
seas, 

And  cleared  the  way  for  the  first  Votaries, 

Prosper  the  new-born  College  of  St,  Bees  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Cfil 


16. 

Alas  !  the  Genius  of  our  age  from  Schools 
Less  humble  draws  her  lessons,  aims,  ami 

rule;. 
To  Prowess  guided  by  her  insight  keen 
Matter  and  Spirit  are  as  one  Machine; 
Boastful  Idolatress  of  formal  skill 
She  in  her  own  would  merge  the  eternal 

will  : 
Expert  to  move  in  paths  that  Newton  trod, 
From    Newton's    Universe  would  banish 

God. 
Better,   if  Reason's  triumphs  match  with 

these, 
Her  flight  before  the  bold  credulities 
That  furthered  the  first   teaching  of  St. 

Bees. 


[The  three  following  Sonnets  are  an  intended 
addition  to  the  "  Ecclesiastical  Sketches,"  the 
first  to  stand  second  ;  and  the  two  that  succeed, 
seventh  and  eighth,  in  the  second  part  of  the 
Series.  They  are  placed  here  as  having  some 
connection  with  the  foregoing  Poem.] 

Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground, 
His  whole  life  long  tills  it,  with  heartless 

toil 
Of  villain-service,  passing  with  the  soil 
To  each  new  Master,  like  a  steer  or  hound, 
Or   like    a    rooted   tree,    or   stone   earth- 
bound  ; 
But,  mark  how  gladly,  through  their  own 

domains, 
The   Monks    relax    or    break    these   iron 

chains  ; 
While  Mercy,  uttering,  through  their  voice, 

a  sound 
Echoed  in  Heaven,  cries  out,  "  Ye  Chiefs, 

abate 
These  legalized  oppressions  !    Man,  whose 

name 
And   nature  God    disdained    not  ;    Man, 

whose  soul 
Christ   died   for,    cannot   forfeit   his  high 

claim 
To  live  and  move  exempt  from  all  controul 
Which  fellow-feeling  doth  not  mitigate  !" 


THE  VAUDOIS. 

But  whence  came  they  who  for  the  Saviour 

Lord 
Have  long  borne  witness  as  the  Scriptures 

teach  ? 
Ages  ere  Va'ido  raised  his  voice  to  preach 


In  Gallic  ears  the  unadulterate  Word, 
Their  fugitive  Progenitors  explored 
Subalpine  vales,  in  quest  of  safe  retreats 
Where  that  pure  Church  survives,  though 

summer  heats 
Open  a  passage  to  the  Romish  sword, 
Far  as  it  dares  to  follow.    Herbs  self-sown, 
And  fruitage  gathered  from  the  chestnut 

wood, 
Nourish  the  Sufferers  then  ;  and  mists,  that 

brood 
O'er    chasms    with    new-fallen    obstacles 

bestrown, 
Protect  them  ;  and  the  eternal  snow  that 

daunts 
Aliens,    is  God's  good   winter    for    their 

haunts. 


Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  moun- 
tain-springs 
Shouting  to  Freedom,  "  Plant  thy  Banners 

here  !" 
To  harassed  Piety,  "  Dismiss  thy  fear, 
And  in  our   Caverns   smooth    thy   ruffled 

wings  !" 
Nor  be  unthanked  their  tardiest  lingerings 
'Mid  reedy  fens  wide-spread  and  marshes 

drear, 
Their  own  creation,  till  their  long  career 
End  in  the  sea  engulphed.     Such  welcom- 

ings 
As  came  from    mighty    Po   when   Venice 

rose, 
Greeted  those  simple  Fleirs  of  truth  divine 
Who  near   his   fountains   sought   obscure 

repose, 
Yet   weie  prepared   as   glorious  lights  to 

shine, 
Should    that  be  needed   for   their   sacred 

Charge ; 
Blest  Prisoners  They,  whose  spirits  are  at 

large  ! 


THE  REDBREAST. 

(SUGGESTED   IN   A   WESTMORELAND 
COTTAGE.) 

Driven  in  by  Autumn's  sharpening  air, 
From  half-stripped    woods    and  pastures 

bare, 
Brisk  Robin  seeks  a  kindlier  home  : 
Not  like  a  beggar  is  he  come, 
But  enters  as  a  looked-for  guest, 
Confiding  in  his  ruddy  breast, 


562 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


As  if  it  were  a  natural  shield 

Charged  with  a  blazon  onthe  field, 

Due  to  that  good  and  pious  deed 

Of  which  we  in  the  Ballad  read. 

But  pensive  fancies  putting  by, 

And  wild-wood  sorrows,  speedily 

He  plays  the  expert  ventriloquist ; 

And,  caught  by  glimpses  now — now  missed, 

Puzzles  the  listener  with  a  doubt 

If  the  soft  voioe  he  throws  about 

Comes  from  within  doors  or  without ! 

Was  ever  such  a  sweet  confusion, 

Sustained  by  delicate  illusion? 

He's  at  your  elbow — to  your  feeling 

The  notes  are  from  the  floor  or  ceiling  ; 

And  there's  a  riddle  to  be  guessed, 

'Till  you  have  marked  his  heaving  breast, 

Where  tiny  sinking  and  faint  swell, 

Betray  the  Elf  that  loves  to  dwell 

In  Robin's  bosom,  as  a  chosen  cell. 

Heart-pleased  we  smile  upon  the  Bird 
If  seen,  and  with  like  pleasure  stirred 
Commend  him,  when  he's  only  heard. 
But  small  and  fugitive  our  gain 
Compared  with  his  who  long  hath  lain, 
With  languid  limbs  and  patient  head, 
Reposing  on  a  lone  sick-bed  ; 
Where  now  he  daily  hears  a  strain 
That  cheats  him  of  too  busy  cares, 
Eases  his  pain,  and  helps  his  prayers. 
And  who  but  this  dear  Bird  beguiled 
The  fever  of  that  pale-faced  Child  ? 
Now  cooling,  with  his  passing  wing, 
Her  forehead,  like  a  breeze  of  Spring  ; 
Recalling  now,  with  descant  soft 
Shed  round  her  pillow  from  aloft, 
Sweet  thoughts  of  angels  hovering  nigh, 
And  the  invisible  sympathy 
Of  "  Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 
Blessing  the  bed  she  lies  upon  :"* 
And  sometimes,  just  as  listening  ends 
In  slumber,  with  the  cadence  blends 
A  dream  of  that  low-warbled  hymn 
Which  Old-folk,  fondly  pleased  to  trim 
Lamps  of  faith  now  burning  dim, 
Say  that  the  Cherubs  carved  in  stone, 
When  clouds  gave  way  at  dead  of  night, 
And  the  moon  filled  the  church  with  light, 
Used  to  sing  in  heavenly  tone, 
Above  and  round  the  sacred  places 
They  guard,  with  winged  baby-faces. 

*  The  words — 

"  Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 
Bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on," 

are  part  of  a  child's  prayer,  still  in  general  use 
'■hrough  the  northern  counties. 


Thrice-happy  Creature  !  in  all  lands 
Nurtured  by  hospitable  hands : 
Free  entrance  to  this  cot  has  he, 
Entrance  and  exit  both  yet  free ; 
And,  when  the  keen  unruffled  weather 
That  thus  brings  man  and  bird  together, 
Shall  with  its  pleasantness  be  past, 
The  casement  closed  and  door  made  fast, 
To  keep  at  bay  the  howling  blast, 
He  needs  not  fear  the  season's  rage, 
For  the  whole  house  is  Robin's  cage. 
Whether  the  bird  flit  here  or  there, 
O'er  table  lilt,  or  perch  on  chair, 
Though  some  may  frown,  and  make  a  stir 
To  scare  him  as  a  trespasser, 
And  he  belike  will  flinch  or  start, 
Good  friends  he  has  to  take  his  part ; 
One  chiefly,  who  with  voice  and  look 
Pleads  for  him  from  the  chimney  nook, 
Where  sits  the  Dame,  and  wears  away 
Her  long  and  vacant  holiday ; 
With  images  about  her  heart, 
Reflected,  from  the  years  gone  by, 
On  human  nature's  second  infancy. 


TO 


[Miss  not  the  occasion  ;  by  the  forelock  take 
That  subtle  Power,  the  never-halting  Time, 
Lest  a  mere  moment's  putting-off  should  make 
Mischance  almost  as  heavy  as  a  crime.] 

"Wait,  prithee,  wait!"  this  answer  Lesbia 

threw 
Forth  to  her  Dove,  and  took  no  further 

heed  ; 
Her  eye  was  busy,  while  her  fingers  flew 
Across    the    harp,    with    soul-engrossing 

speed  ; 
But  from  that  bondage  when  her  thoughts 

were  freed 
She  rose,  and  towards  the  close-shut  case- 
ment drew, 
Whence  the  poor  unregarded  Favourite, 

true 
To  old  affections,  had  been  heard  to  plead 
With  flapping  wing  for  entrance.     What  a 

shriek 
Forced  from  that  voice  so  lately  tuned  to  a 

strain 
Of  harmony  !— a  shriek  of  terror,  pain, 
And  self-reproach  ! — for,  from  aloft,  a  Kite 
Pounced,  and  the  Dove,   which  fromiits 

ruthless  beak 
She  could  not  rescue,  perished  in  her  sight ) 


MISCELLANEOUS  TOEMS. 


563 


RURAL  ILLUSIONS. 


Sylph  was  it  ?  or  a  Bird  more  bright 

Than  those  of  fabulous  stock  ? 
A  second  darted  by  ; — and  lo  ! 

Another  of  the  flock, 
Through  sunshine  flitting  from  the  bough 

To  nestle  in  the  rock. 
Transient  deception  !  a  gay  freak 

Of  April's  mimicries  ! 
Those  brilliant  Strangers,  hailed  with  joy 

Among  the  budding  trees, 
Proved  last  year's  leaves,  pushed  from  the 
spray 

To  frolic  on  the  breeze. 


Maternal  Flora  !  show  thy  face, 

And  let  thy  hand  be  seen 
Which  sprinkles  here  these  tiny  flowers, 

That,  as  they  touch  the  green, 
Take  root  (so  seems  it)  and  look  up 

In  honour  of  their  Queen. 
Yet,  sooth,  those  little  starry  specks, 

That  not  in  vain  aspired 
To  be  confounded  with  live  growths, 

Most  dainty,  most  admired, 
IVere  only  blossoms  dropped  from  twigs 

Of  their  own  offspring  tired. 


Not  such  the  World's  illusive  shows  ; 

Her  wingless  flutterings, 
Her  blossoms  which,  though  shed,  outbrave 

The  Floweret  as  it  springs, 
For  the  Undeceived,  smile  as  they  may, 

Are  melancholy  things : 
But  gentle  Nature  plays  her  part 

With  ever-varying  wiles, 
And  transient  feignings  with  plain  truth 

So  well  she  reconciles, 
That  those  fond  Idlers  most  are  pleased 

Whom  oftenest  she  beguiles. 


THIS  LAWN,  &c. 

This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive 

With  shadows  flung  from  leaves— to  strive 

In  dance,  amid  a  press 
Of  sunshine— an  apt  emblem  yields 
Of  Worldlings  revelling  in  the  fields 

Of  strenuous  idleness ; 


Less  quick  the  stir  when  tide  and  breeze 
Encounter,  and  to  narrow  seas 

Forbid  a  moment's  rest  ; 
The  medley  less  when  boreal  Lights 
Glance  to  and  fro  like  aery  Sprites 

To  feats  of  arms  addrest ! 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  eager  strife, 
This  ceaseless  play,  the  genuine  life 

That  serves  the  steadfast  hours, 
Is  in  the  grass  beneath,  that  grows 
Unheeded,  and  the  mute  repose 

Ut  sweetly-breathing  flowers. 


THOUGHT  ON  THE  SEASONS. 

Flattered  with  promise  of  escape 

From  every  hurtful  blast, 
Spring  takes,  O  sprightly  May  !  thy  shape, 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Less  fair  is  summer  riding  high 

In  fierce  solstitial  power, 
Less  fair  than  when  a  lenient  sky 

Brings  on  her  parting  hour. 

When  earth  repays  with  golden  sheaves 

The  labours  of  the  plough, 
And  ripening  fruits  and  forest  leaves 

All  brighten  on  the  bough, 

What  pensive  beauty  autumn  shows, 

Before  she  hears  the  sound 
Of  winter  rushing  in,  to  dose 

The  emblematic  round  ! 

Such  be  our  Spring,  our  Summer  such  ; 

So  may  our  Autumn  blend 
With  hoary  Winter,  and  Life  touch, 

Through  heaven-born  hope,  her  end  ! 


HUMANITY. 
(written  in  the  year  1829.) 

Not  from  his  fellows  only  man  may  learn 
Rights  to  compare  and  duties  to  discern: 
A II  creatures  and  all  objects,  in  degree, 
Are  friends  and  patrons  of  humanity. — MS. 

[The  Rocking-stones,  alluded  to  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  following  verses,  are  supposed  to 
have  been  used,  by  our  British  ancestors,  both 
for  judicial  and  religious  purposes.  Such  stones 
are  not  uncommonly  found,  at  this  day,  both 
in  Great  Britain  and  in  Ireland.] 

What  though  the  Accused,  upon  his  own 

appeal 
To  righteous  Gods  when  Man  has  ceased 

to  feel, 


564 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Or'at  a  doubting  Judge's  stern  command,    j 
Before  the  Stone  of  Power  no  longer 

stand — 
To  take  his  sentence  from  the  balanced 

Block, 
As,  at  his  touch,  it  rocks,  or  seems  to  rock ; 
Though,  in  the  depths  of  sunless  groves, 

no  more 
The  Druid-priest  the  hallowed  Oak  adore  ; 
Yet,  for  the  Initiate,  rocks  and  whispering 

trees 
Do  still  perform  mysterious  offices  ! 
And  still  in  beast  and  bird  a  function  dwells, 
That,  while  we  look  and  listen,  sometimes 

tells 
Upon  the  heart,  in  more  authentic  guise 
Than  Oracles,  or  winged  Auguries, 
Spake  to  the  Science  of  the  ancient  wise. 
Not  uninspired  appear  their  simplest  ways  ; 
Their  voices  mount  symbolical  of  praise — 
To  mix  with  hymns  that  Spirits  make  and 

hear  ; 
And  to  fallen  Man  their  innocence  is  dear. 
Enraptured  Art  draws  from  those  sacred 

springs 
Streams  that  reflect  the  poetry  of  things  ! 
Where  Christian   Martyrs  stand   in   hues 

portrayed, 
That,  might  a  wish  avail,  would  never  fade, 
Borne  in  their  hands  the  Lily  and  the  Palm 
Shed  round  the  Altar  a  celestial  calm  ; 
There,  too,  behold  the  Lamb  and  guileless 

Dove 
Prest  in  the  tenderness  of  virgin  love 
To  saintly  bosoms  ! — Glorious  is  the  blend- 
ing 
Of  right  Affections,  climbing  or  descending 
Along  a  scale  of  light  and  life,  with  cares 
Alternate ;    carrying    holy    thoughts    and 

prayers 
Up  to  the  sovereign  seat  of  the  Most  High ; 
Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity  ;* 
Like  those  good  Angels  whom  a  dream  of 

night 
Gave,  in  the  Field  of  Luz,  to  Jacob's  sight; 
All,  while  he  slept,  treading  the  pendent 

stairs 
Earthward  or  heavenward,  radiant  Mes- 
sengers, 
That,  with  a  perfect  will  in  one  accord 
Of  strict  obedience,  served  the  Almighty 

Lord; 
And  with  untired  humility  forbore 
The  ready  service  of  the  wings  they  wore. 


*  The  author  is  indebted,  here,  to  a  passage 
in  one  of  Mr.  Digby's  valuable  works. 


What  a  fair  World  were  ours  for  Vers* 

to  paint, 
If   Power    could    live  at   ease   with  self- 
restraint  ! 
Opinion  bow  before  the  naked  sense 
Of  the  great  Vision, — faith  in  Providence  ; 
Merciful  over  all  existence,  just 
To  the  least  particle  of  sentient  dust; 
And,  fixing  by  immutable  decrees, 
Seedtime  and  harvest  for  his  purposes  ! 
Then  would  be  closed  the  restless  oblique 

eye 
That  looks  for  evil  like  a  treacherous  spy; 
Disputes    would   then    relax,   like    stormy 

winds 
That  into  breezes  sink  ;  impetuous  Minds 
By  discipline  endeavour  to  grow  meek 
As  Truth  herself,  whom  they  profess  to  seek. 
Then   Genius,    shunning    fellowship    with 

Pride, 
Would  braid  his  golden  locks  at  Wisdom's 

side  ; 
Love  ebb  and  flow  untroubled  by  caprice  ; 
And  not  alone  harsh  tyranny  would  cease, 
But  unoffending  creatures  find  release 
From  qualified  oppression,  whose  defence 
Rests  on  a  hollow  plea  of  recompence  ; 
Thought-tempered  wrongs,  for  each  humane 

respect 
Oft  worse  to  bear,  or  deadlier  in  effect. 
Witness  those  glances  of  indignant  scorn 
From  some  high-minded  Slave,   impelled 

to  spurn 
The  kindness  that  would  make  him  less 

forlorn  ; 
Or,  if  the  soul  to  bondage  be  subdued, 
His  look  of  pitiable  gratitude  ! 

Alas  for  thee,  bright  Galaxy  of  Isles, 
Where  day  departs  in  pomp,  returns  with 

smiles — 
To  greet  the  flowers  and  fruitage  of  a  land, 
As  the  sun  mounts,  by  sea-borne  breezes 

fanned  ; 
A  land  whose  azure  mountain-tops  are  seats 
For  Gods  in   council,  whose  green  vales, 

Retreats 
Fit  for  the  Shades   of  Heroes,   mingling 

there 
To  breathe  Elysian  peace  in  upper  air. 

Though  cold  as  winter,  gloomy  as  the 

grave, 
Stone-walls  a  Prisoner  make,  but  not  a 

Slave. 
Shall  Man  assume  a  property  in  Man  ? 
Lay  on  the  moral  Will  a  withering  ban  ? 


MTSCE I  LA  XEOUS  POEMS. 


',<;: 


Shame   that  our  laws  at  distance  should 

protect 
Enormities,  which  they  at  home  reject ! 
"Slaves   cannot  breathe  in    England" — a 

proud  boast  ! 
And  yet  a  mockery  !  if,  from  coast  to  coast, 
Though  fettered  slave  be  none,  her  floors 

and  soil 
Groan  underneath  a  weight  of  slavish  toil, 
for  the  poor  Many,  measured  out  by  rules 
Fetched     with     cupidity    from     heartless 

schools, 
That  to  an  Idol,  falsely  called  "the  Wealth 
1  M    Nations,"  sacrifice  a  People's  health, 
Body  and  mind  and  soul;  a  thirst  so  keen 
Is  ever  urging  on  the  vast  machine 
Of    sleepless    Labour,    'mid   whose   dizzy 

wheels 
The  Power  least  prized  is  that  which  thinks 

and  feels. 

Then,  for  the  pastimes  of  this  delicate 

age, 
And  all  the  heavy  or  light  vassalage 
Which  for  their  sakes  we  fasten,  as  may  suit 
Our   varying  moods,   on   human  kind  or 

brute, 
'Twere  well  in  little,  as  in  great,  to  pause, 
Lest  Fancy  trifle  with  eternal  laws. 
There  are  to  whom  even  garden,  grove, 

and  field, 
Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield  ; 
Who  would  not  lightly  violate  the  grace 
The  lowliest  flower  possesses  in  its  place  ; 
Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  fugitive, 
Which   nothing   less  than   Infinite    Power 

could  give. 


LINES 


SUGGESTED    BY   A   PORTRAIT    FROM    THE 
PENCIL   OF   F.    STONE. 

Beguiled  into  forgetfulness  of  care 
Due  to  the  day's  unfinished  task,  of  pen 
Or  book  regardless,  and  of  that  fair  scene 
In  Nature's  prodigality  displayed 
I'.efore  my  window,  oftentimes  and  long 
I  gaze  upon  a  Portrait  whose  mild  gleam 
'  )f  beauty  never  ceases  to  enrich 
The  common  light;  whose  stillness  charm.: 

the  air, 
Or  seems  to  charm  it,  into  like  repose  ; 
Whose  silence,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  ear, 
Surpasses  sweetest  music.     There  she  sits 
With  emblematic  purity  attired 
In  a  white  vest,  white  as  her  marble  neck 


A,  and  the  pillar  of  the  throat  would  be 
But  for  the  shadow  by  the  drooping  chin 
Cast  into  that  recess     the  tender  shade 
The  shade  and  light,  both  there  and  every- 
where, 
.And    through    the    very  atmosphere    she 

breathes, 
Broad,  clear,  and  toned  harmoniously,  with 

skill 
That  might  from  nature  have  been  learnt 

in  the  hour 
When  the  lone  Shepherd  sees  the  morning 

spread 
Upon  the  mountains.  Look  at  her,  whoe'er 
Thou  be,  that  kindling  with  a  poet's  soul 
Hast  loved  the  painter's  true  Promethean 

craft 
Intensely — from  Imagination  take 
The  treasure,  what  mine  eyes  behold  see 

thou, 
Even    though    the    Atlantic    Ocean    roll 

between. 

A   silver   line,    that  runs  from  brow  to 

crown, 
And  in  the  middle  parts  the  braided  hair, 
Just  serves  to  show  how  delicate  a  soil 
The  golden  harvest  grows  in  ;  and  thost 

eyes, 
Soft  and  capacious  as  a  cloudless  sky 
Whose  azure  depth  their  colour  emulates, 
Must   needs   be   conversant  with  upwai'd 

looks, 
Prayer's  voiceless  service;  but  now,  seeking 

naught 
And  shunning  naught,  their  own  peculiar 

life 
Of  motion  they  renounce,  and  with  the  head 
Partake  its  ir.clination  towards  earth 
In  humble  grace,  and  quiet  pensiveness 
Caught  at  the  point  where  it  stops  short  of 

sadness. 

Offspring  of  soul-bewitching  Art,  make 
me 
Thy  confidant  !  say,  whence  derived  that  air 
Of    calm    abstraction  ?     Can    the   ruling 

thought 
Be  with  some  lover  far  away,  or  one 
Crossed  by  misfortune,  or  of  doubled  faith  ? 
Inapt  conjecture  !  Childhood  here,  a  moon 
'"rescent  in  simple  loveliness  serene, 
Has  but  approached  the  gates  of  woman- 
hood, 
Not  entered  them ;  her  heart  is  yet  unpierced 
By  the  blind  Archer-god,  her  fancy  free  : 
The  fount  of  feeling,  if  unsought  elsewhere, 
Will  not  be  found. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Her  right  hand,  as  it  lies 
Across  the  slender  wrist  of  the  left  arm 
Upon  her  lap  reposing,  holds— but  mark 
How  slackly,  for  the  absent  mind  permits 
No  firmer  grasp — a  little  wild-flower,  joined 
As  in  a  posy,  with  a  few  pale  ears 
Of  yellowing   corn,   the  same   that  over- 
topped 
And  in  their  common  birthplace  sheltered  it 
'Till  they  were  plucked  together;  a  blue 

flower 
Called  by  the  thrifty  husbandman  a  weed; 
But  Ceres,  in  her  garland,  might  have  worn 
That  ornament,  unblamed.     The  floweret, 
held  [knows, 

In    scarcely   conscious    fingers,    was,    she 
(Her  Father  told  her  so)  in  Youth's  gaydawn 
Her  Mother's  favourite  ;  and  the  orphan 
Girl,  [bright, 

In  her  own  dawn — a  dawn  less  gay  and 
Loves  it  while  there  in  solitary  peace 
She  sits,  for  that  departed  Mother's  sake. 
— Not  from  a  source  less  sacred  is  derived 
(Surely  I  do  not  err)  that  pensive  air 
Of  calm  abstraction  through  the  face  dif- 
fused 
And  the  whole  person. 

Words  have  something  told 
More  than  the  pencil  can,  and  verily 
More  than  is  needed,  but  the  precious  Art 
Forgives  their  interference — Art  divine, 
That  both  creates  and  fixes,  in  despite 
Of  Death  and  Time,  the  marvels  it  hath 
wrought. 

Strange  contrasts  have  we  in  this  world 
of  ours  ! 
That  posture,  and  the  look  of  filial  love 
Thinking  of  past  and  gone,  with  what  is  left 
Dearly  united,  migl/  be  swept  away 
From  this  fair  Portrait's  fleshly  Archetype, 
Even  by  an  innocent  fancy's  slightest  freak 
Vanished,  nor  ever,  haply,  be  restored 
To  their  lost  place,  or  meet  in  harmony 
So  exquisite  ;  but  here  do  they  abide, 
Enshrined  for  ages.     Is  not  then  the  Art 
Godlike,  a  humble  branch  of  the  divine, 
In  visible  quest  of  immortality, 
Stretched  forth  with  trembling  hope?    In 

every  realm, 
From  high  Gibraltar  to  Siberian  plains, 
Thousands,  in  each  variety  of  tongue 
That  Europe  knows,  would  echo  this  ap- 
peal ; 
One  above  all,  a  Monk  who  waits  on  God 
In  the  magnific  Convent  built  of  yore 
To  sanctify  the  Escurial  palace.     He. 


Guiding,  from  cell  to  ceri  and  room  to  room, 
A  British  Painter  (eminent  for  truth 
In  character,  and  depth  of  feeling,  shown 
By  labours  that  have  touched  the  hearts  of 

kings, 
And  are  endeared  to  simple  cottagers) 
Left  not  unvisited  a  glorious  work, 
Our  Lord's  Last  Supper,  beautiful  as  when 

first 
The  appropriate  Picture,  fresh  from  Titian  c 

hand, 
Graced  the  Refectory:  and  there,  while  both 
Stood  with  eyes  fixed  upon  that  Master- 
piece, 
The  hoary  Father  in  the  Stranger's  ear 
Breathed  out  these  words  : — "  Here  daily 

do  we  sit, 
Thanks  given  to  God  for  daily  bread,  and 

here 
Pondering   the   mischiefs  of  these  restless 

Times, 
And  thinking  of  my  Brethren,  dead,  dis- 
persed, 
Or  changed  and  changing,  I  not  seldom 

gaze 
Upon  this  solemn  Company  unmoved 
By  shock  of  circumstance,  or  lapse  of  years, 
Until  I  cannot  but  believe  that  they — 
They  are  in  truth  the  Substance,  we  the 
Shadows." 

So  spake  the  mild  Jeronymite,  his  griefs 
Melting  away  within  him  like  a  dream 
Ere  he   had   ceased   to   gaze,   perhaps  to 

speak  : 
And  I,  grown  old,  but  in  a  happier  land, 
Domestic  Portrait !  have  to  verse  consigned 
In  thy  calm  presence  those  heart-moving 

words  : 
Words  that  can  soothe,    more  than  they 

agitate  ; 
Whose  spirit,  like  the  angel  that  went  down 
Into  Bethesda's  pool,  with  healing  virtue 
Informs  the  fountain  in  the  human  breast 
That  by  the  visitation  was  disturbed. 
But   why   this  stealing    tear?     Com- 
panion mute, 
On  thee  I  look,  not  sorrowing  ;  fare  thee 

well, 
My  Song's  Inspirer,  once  again  farewell ! 


The  pile  of  buildings,  composing  the  palace 
and  convent  of  San  Lorenzo,  has,  in  common 
usage,  lost  its  proper  name  in  that  of  the 
Escitrial,  a  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  upon 
which  the  splendid  edifice,  built  by  Philip  the 
Second,  stands.  It  need  scarcely  be  added, 
that  Wilkie  is  the  painter  alluded  to. 


MlSGELLA  ftEOtrS  TOEMS. 


r,r,7 


THE  FOREGOING  SUBJECT   RESUMED. 

Ami  >NG  a  grave  fraternity  of  Monks, 
For  One,  but  surely  not  for  One  alone, 

Triumphs,  in  that  groat  work,  the  Painter's 

skill, 
Humbling  the  body,  to  exalt  the  soul  ; 
Vet  representing,  amid  wreck  and  wrong 
And  dissolution  and  decay,  the  warm 
And  breathing  life  of  flesh,  as  if  already 
I  lothed  with  impassive  majesty,  and  graced 
With  no  mean  earnest  of  a  heritage 
Assigned  to  it  in  future  worlds.  Thou,  too, 
With    thy   memorial    flower,     meek    Por- 
traiture ! 
From    whose    serene     companionship    I 

passed, 
Pursued  by  thoughts  that  haunt  me  still; 

thou  also — 
Though  but  a  simple  object,  into  light 
Called  forth  by  those  affections  that  endear 
The  private  hearth  ;    though  keeping  thy 

sole  seat 
In  singleness,  and  little  tried  by  time, 
Creation,  as  it  were,  of  yesterday — 
With  a  congenial  function  art  endued 
For  each  and  all  of  us,  together  joined, 
In  course  of  nature,  under  a  low  roof 
By  charities  and  duties  that  proceed 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  a  wiser  vow. 
To  a  like  salutary  sense  of  awe, 
Or  sacred  wonder,  growing  with  the  power 
Of  meditation  that  attempts  to  weigh, 
In  faithful  scales,  things  and  their  oppo- 

sites, 
Can  thy  enduring  quiet  gently  raise 
A  household  small  and  sensitive, — whose 

love, 
Dependent  as  in  part  its  blessings  are 
Upon  frail  ties  dissolving  or  dissolved 
On  earth,    will  be  revived,   we  trust,   in 

heaven. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  POWER  OF 
SOUND. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  Ear  addressed,  as  occupied  by  a  spiritual 
functionary,  in  communion  with  sounds,  in- 
dividual, or  combined  in  studied  harmony. — 
Sources  and  effects  of  those  sounds  (to  the 
close  of  6th  Stanza). — The  power  of  music, 
whence  proceeding,  exemplified  in  the  idiot. — 
Origin  of  music,  arid  its  effect  in  early  ages- 
how  produced  (to  the  middle  of  10th  Stanza). 
— The  mind  recalled  to  sounds  acting  casually 


.mil  severally.— Wish  uttered  (nthStanza)  that 
these  could  be  united  into  a  scheme  or  sj 
fir  moral  interests  and  intellectual  contempla- 
tion,—(Stanza  tath.)  The  Pythagorean  theory 

of  numbers  and  music,  with  their  supposed 
power  oyer  the  motions  of  the  universe — 
imaginations  consonant  with  such  a  theory. — 
Wish  expressed  in  nth  Stanza)  realised,  in 
some  degree,  by  the  representation  of  all 
sounds  under  the  form  '>f  thanksgiving  to  the 
Creator. — (Last  Stanza)  the  destruction  of 
earth  and  the  planetary  system — the  survival 
of  audible  hurmony,  and  its  support  in  the 
Divine  Nature,  as  revealed  in  Holy  Writ. 


Thy  functions  are  ethereal, 

As  if  within  thee  dwelt  a  glancing  Mind, 

Organ  of  Vision       And  a  Spirit  aerial 

Informs  the  cell  of  hearing,  dark  and  blind; 

Intricate  labyrinth,  more  dread  for  thought 

To  enter  than  oracular  cave  ; 

Strict   passage,   through   which  sighs  are 

brought, 
And  whispers,  for  the  heart,  their  slave  ; 
And  shrieks,  that  revel  in  abuse 
Of  shivering  flesh ;  and  warbled  air, 
Whose  piercing  sweetness  can  unloose 
The  chains  of  frenzy,  or  entice  a  smile 
Into  the  ambush  of  despair  ; 
Hosannas   pealing  down  the  long-drawn 

aisle, 
And  requiems  answered  by  the  pulse  that 

beats 
Devoutly,  in  life's  last  retreats  ! 


The  headlong  Streams  and  Fountains 

Serve  Thee,  Invisible  Spirit,  with  untired 
powers  ; 

Cheering    the    wakeful    Tent   on    Syrian 
mountains, 

They  lull  perchance  ten  thousand  thousand 
flowers. 

That  roar,  the  prowling  Lion's  Here  I  am, 

How  fearful  to  the  desert  wide! 

That  bleat,  how  tender  !  of  the  Dam 

Calling  a  straggler  to  her  side. 

Shout,  Cuckoo  !  let  the  vernal  soul 

Go  with  thee  to  the  frozen  zone ; 

Toll  from  thy  loftiest  perch,  lone  Bell-bird, 
toll! 

At  the  still  hour  to  Mercy  dear, 

Mercy  from  her  twilight  throne 

Listening  to  Nun's  faint  sob  of  holy  fear, 

To  Sailor's  prayer  breathed  from  a  darken- 
ing sea, 

Or  Widow's  cottage  lullaby. 

2  Q 


3(5S 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Ye  Voices,  and  ye  Shadows, 
And  Images  of  voice — to  hound  and  horn 
From  rocky  steep  and  rock-bestudded  mea- 
dows 
Flung  back,  and,  in  the  sky's  blue  caves, 

reborn, 
On  with  your   pastime !    till   the  church- 
tower  bells 
A  greeting  give  of  measured  glee  ; 
And  milder  echoes  from  their  cells 
Repeat  the  bridal  symphony. 
Then,  or  far  earlier,  let  us  rove 
Where  mists  are  breaking  up  or  gone, 
And  from  aloft  look  down  into  a  cove 
Besprinkled  with  a  careless  quire, 
Happy  Milk-maids,  one  by  one 
Scattering  a  ditty  each  to  her  desire, 
A  liquid  concert  matchless  by  nice  Art, 
A  stream  as  if  from  one  full  heart. 


Blest  be  the  song  that  brightens 

The  blind  Man's  gloom,  exalts  the  Veteran's 

mirth  ; 
Unscorned  the  Peasant's  whistling  breath, 

that  lightens 
His  duteous   toil  of  furrowing  the   green 

earth. 
For  the  tired  Slave,  Song  lifts  the  languid 

oar, 
And  bids  it  aptly  fall,  with  chime 
That  beautifies  the  fairest  shore, 
And  mitigates  the  harshest  clime. 
Yon  Pilgrims  see — in  lagging  file 
They  move  ;  but  soon  the  appointed  way 
A  choral  Ave  Marie  shall  beguile, 
And  to  their  hope  the  distant  shrine 
Glisten  with  a  livelier  ray  : 
Nor  friendless  He,  the  Prisoner  of  the  Mine, 
Who  from  the  well-spring  of  his  own  clear 

breast 
V^an  draw,  and  sing  his  griefs  to  rest. 


When  civic  renovation 
Dawns  on  a  kingdom,  and  for  needful  haste 
Best  eloquence  avails  not,  Inspiration 
Mounts  with  a  tune,  that  travels  like  a  blast 
Piping    through   cave    and    battlemented 

tower ; 
Then  starts  the  Sluggard,  pleased  to  meet 
That  voice  of  Freedom,  in  its  power 
Of  promises,  shrill,  wild,  and  sweet ! 
Who,  from  a  martial  pageant,  spreads 
Incitements  of  a  battle-day, 


Thrilling    the    unweaponed    crowd    with 

plumeless  heads  ; 
Even  She  whose  Lydian  airs  inspire 
Peaceful  striving,  gentle  play 
Of  timid  hope  and  innocent  desire 
Shot  from  the  dancing  Graces,  as  they  move 
Fanned  by  the  plausive  wings  of  Love. 


How  oft  along  thy  mazes, 

Regent  of  Sound,  have  dangerous  h'assions 

trod! 
O  Thou,  through  whom  the  Temple  rings 

with  praises, 
And  blackening  clouds  in  thunder  speak  ol 

God, 
Betray  not  by  the  cozenage  of  sense 
Thy  Votaries,  wooingly  resigned 
To  a  voluptuous  influence 
That  taints  the  purer,  better  mind  ; 
But  lead  sick  Fancy  to  a  harp 
That  hath  in  noble  tasks  been  tried  ; 
And,  if  the  Virtuous  feel  a  pang  too  sharp. 
Soothe  it  into  patience, — stay 
The  uplifted  arm  of  Suicide  ; 
And  let  some  mood  of  thine  in  firm  array 
Knit  every  thought  the  impending  issue 

needs, 
Ere  Martyr  burns,  or  Patriot  bleeds  ' 


As  Conscience,  to  the  centre 
Of  Being,  smites  with  irresistible  pain, 
So  shall  a  solemn  cadence,  if  it  enter 
The  mouldy  vaults  of  the  dull  Idiot's  brain, 
Transmute  him  to  a  wretch  from   quiet 

hurled — 
Convulsed  as  by  a  jarring  din  ; 
And  then  aghast,  as  at  the  world 
Of  reason  partially  let  in 
By  concords  winding  with  a  sway 
Terrible  for  sense  and  soul ! 
Or,   awed  he  weeps,    struggling  to  quell 

dismay. 
Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  Art 
Lodged  above  the  starry  pole  ; 
Pure  modulations  flowing  from  the  heart 
Of  divine  Love,  where  Wisdom,  Beauty, 

Truth 
With  Order  dwell,  in  endless  youth? 


Oblivion  may  not  cover 
All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  Miser,  Time. 
Orphean  Insight !  Truth 'sundaunted  Lover, 
To  the  first  leagues  of  tutored  passion  climb, 


MISCELLANEOUS  20EM8. 


m 


When  Music  deigned  within  this  grosser 

sphi 
1  li-r  subtle  essence  to  enfold, 
And  Voice  and  Shell  drew  forth  a  tear 
Softer  than  Nature's  self  could  mould. 
Yel  strenuous  was  the  imam  Age: 
Art,  daring  because  souls  could  feel, 

;  nowhere  but  an  urgent  equipage 
Of  rapt  imagination  sped  her  march 
Through  the  realms  o(  woe  and  weal  : 
Hell  to  the  lyre  bowed  low  ;  the  upper  arch 
Rejoiced  that  clamorous  spell  and  magic 

verse 
Her  wan  disasters  could  disperse 


The  Gift  to  King  Amphion 
That  walled  a  city  with  its  melody- 
Was  for  belief  no  dream  ;  thy  skill,  Arion  ! 
Could  humanise  the  creatures  of  the  sea. 
Where  men  were  monsters.     A  last  grace 

he  craves, 
Leave  for  one  chant ; — the  dulcet  sound 
Steals  from  the  deck  o'er  willing  waves, 
And  listening  Dolphins  gather  round. 
Self-cast,  as  with  a  desperate  course, 
'Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 
A  proud  One  docile  as  a  managed  horse  ; 
And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand 
Sweeps  his  harp,  the  Master  rides  ; 
So  shall  he  touch  at  length  a  friendly  strand, 
And  he.  with  his  Preserver,  shine  star-bright 
In  memory,  through  silent  night. 


The  pipe  of  Pan,  to  Shepherds 

Couched  in  the  shadow  of  Menalian  Pines, 

Was  passing  sweet ;    the  eyeballs  of  the 

Leopards, 
That  in  high  triumph  drew  the  Lord  of 

vines, 
I  low  did  they  sparkle  to  the  cymbal's  clang  ! 
While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  beat  the  ground 
In  cadence, — and  Silenus  swang 
This    way    and     that,    with    wild-flowers 

crowned. 
To  life,  to  life  give  back  thine  Ear  : 
Ye  who  are  longing  to  be  rid 
of  Fable,  though  to  truth  subservient 
The  little  sprinkling  of  cold  earth  that  fell 
l'.choed  from  the  coffin  lid  ; 
The!  orivict's  summons  in  the  steeple  knell. 
"  The  vain  distress-gun,"  from  a  leeward 

shore, 
Repeated— heard,  and  heard  no  more  ! 


For  terror,  joy,  or  pity, 

Vast  is  the  compass,  and  the  swell  of  notes  : 

From  the  babe's  tirbt  cry  to  voice  of  r<  gal 

(   ity, 
Rolling  a  solemn  sea-like  bass,  that  floats 
the   woodlands — with  the  trill   to 

blend 
Of  that  shy  Songstress,  whose  love-tale 
Might  tempt  an  Angel  to  descend, 
While  hovering  o'er  the  moonlight  vale 

0  for  some  soul-affecting  scheme 
Of  moral  music,  to  unite 

Wanderers  whose  portion  is   the   faintest 
dream  [beat 

1  If  memory  ! — O  that  they  might  stoop  to 
Chains,  such  precious  chains  of  sight 

As    laboured    minstrelsies   through    age:. 

wear  ! 
O  for  a  balance  fit  the  truth  to  tell 
Of  the  Unsubstantial,  pondered  well  ! 


By  one  pervading  Spirit 

Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  con- 
trolled, [merit 

As  Sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found  to 

Initiation  in  that  mystery  old. 

The  Heavens,  whose  aspect  makes  our 
minds  as  still 

As  they  themselves  appear  to  be, 

Innumerable  voices  fill 

With  everlasting  harmony ; 

The  towering  Headlands,  crowned  with 
mist, 

Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 

That  Ocean  is  a  mighty  harmonist ; 

Thy  pinions,  universal  Air, 

Ever  waving  to  and  fro, 

Are  delegates  of  harmony,  and  bear 

Strains  that  support  the  Seasons  in  their 
round  ; 

Stern  Winter  loves  a  dirge-like  sound. 

Break  forth  in;o  thanksgiving, 

Ye    banded    Instruments    of     wind    and 

chords ; 
Unite,  to  magnify  the  Ever-living, 
Your  inarticulate   notes  with  the  voice  of 

words  ! 
Nor   hushed  be  service  from    the  lowing 

mead, 
Nor  mute  the  forest  hum  of  noon  : 
Thou  too  be  heard,  lone  Eagle  !  freed 
From  snowy  peak  and  cloud,  attune 


570 


MISCBLLANEOVS  POEMS. 


Thy  hungry  barkings  to  the  hymn 

Of  joy,  that  from  her  utmost  walls 

The  six -days'  Work  by  flaming  Seraphim, 

Transmits  to  Heaven  !  As  Deep  to  Deep 

Shouting  through  one  valley  calls 

All  worlds,  all  natures,  mood  and  measure 

keep 
For  praise  and  ceaseless  gratulation  poured 
Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord  ! 

14. 

A  voice  to  Light  gave  Being  ; 

To  Time,  and  Man  his  earth-born  Chro- 
nicler ;  [seeing, 

A  Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  fore- 

And  sweep  away  life's  visionary  stir; 

The  Trumpet  (we,  intoxicate  witli  pride, 

Arm  at  its  blast  for  deadly  wars) 

To  archangelic  lips  applied, 

The  grave  shall  open,  quench  the  stars. 

O  Silence  !  are  Man's  noisy  years 

No  more  than  moments  of  thy  life  ? 

Is  Harmony,  blest  Queen  of  smiles  and 
tears, 

With  her  smooth  tones  and  discords  just  , 

Tempered  into  rapturous  strife, 

Thy  destined  Bond-slave  ?  No !  though 
Earth  be  dust  [her  stay 

And  vanish,  though  the  Heavens  dissolve, 

Is  in  the  WORD,  that  shall  not  pass  away. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

(COMPOSED   BY  THE   SEA-SIDE, — ON    THE 
COAST   OF   CUMBERLAND.) 

Wanderer  !   that  stoop'st  so  low,   and 

com'st  so  near 
To  human  life's  unsettled  atmosphere  ; 
Who  lov'st  with  Night  and  Silence  to  par- 
take, [wake  ; 
So  might  it  seem,  the  cares  of  them  that 
And,  through  the  cottage  lattice  softly 
peeping,  [sleeping ; 
Dost  shield  from  harm  the  humblest  of  the 
What   pleasure    once   encompassed   those 

sweet  names 
Which  yet  in  thy  behalf  the  Poet  claims, 
An  idolizing  dreamer  as  of  yore  ! —    [shore 
I   slight  them  all ;    and,   on  this  sea-beat 
Sole-sitting,  only  can  to  thoughts  attend 
That  bid   me  hail   thee  as  the  Sailor's 
Friend  ;  [made  known 

So  call  thee  for  heaven's  grace  through  thee 
By  confidence  supplied  and  mercy  shown. 


When  not  a  twinkling  star  or  beacon's  light 
Abates  the  perils  of  a  stormy  night ; 
And  for  less  obvious  benefits,  that  find 
Their  way,  with  thy  pure  help,  to  heart  and 

mind  ;  [prime  ; 

Both   for  the  adventurer  starting  in  life's 
And  veteran  ranging  round  from  clime  to 

clime, 
Long  baffled  hope's  slow  fever  in  his  veins, 
And  wounds  and  weakness  oft  his  labour's 

sole  remains. 

The  aspiring  Mountains  and  the  winding 

Streams 
Empress  of  Night  !    are  gladdened  by  thy 

beams ; 
A  look  of  thine  the  wilderness  pervades, 
And  penetrates  the  forest's  inmost  shades  ; 
Thou,  chequering  peaceably  the  minster's 

gloom,  [tomb ; 

Guid'st  the  pale  Mourner  to  the  lost  one's 
Canst  reach  the  Prisoner — to  his  grated 

cell 
Welcome,  though  silent  and  intangible  ! — 
And  lives  there  one,  of  all  that  come  and 

go 
On  the  great  waters  toiling  to  and  fro, 
One,  who  has  watched  thee  at  some  quiet 

hour 
Enthroned  aloft  in  undisputed  power, 
Or  crossed  by  vapoury  streaks  and  clouds 

that  move 
Catching  the  lustre  they  in  part  reprove — 
Nor  sometimes  felt  a  fitness  in  thy  sway 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  shun  the  glare  of 

day, 
And  make  the  serious  happier  than  the  gay  ? 

Yes,   lovely  Moon  !    if  thou   so   mildly 
bright 
Dost  rouse,  yet  surely  in  thy  own  despite, 
To  fiercer  mood  the  phrenzy-stricken  brain, 
Let  me  a  compensating  faith  maintain  ; 
That  there's  a  sensitive,  a  tender  part 
Which   thou  canst  touch  in  every  human 

heart, 
For  healing  and  composure. — But,  as  least 
And  mightiest  billows  ever  have  confessed 
Thy  domination  ;  as  the  whole  vast  Sea 
Feels  through  her  lowest  depths  thy  sove- 
reignty ;  [grace 
So  shines  that  countenance  with  especial 
On  them  who  urge  the  keel  her  plains  to 

trace 
Furrowing  its  way  right  onward.  The  most 

rude, 
Cut  off  from  home  and  country,  may  have 
stood — 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55 ! 


Even  tilllonggazinghath  bedimmedhiseye, 
Or  the   mute  rapture  ended  in  a  sigh — 
Touched  by  accordance  of  thy  placid  cheer, 
With  some  internal  lights  to  memory  dear, 
Or   fancies    stealing    forth    to   soothe    the 

breast 
Tired  withitsdaily  share  of  earth's  unrest, — 
Gentle  awakenings,  visitations  meek  ; 
A  kindly  influence  whereof  few  will  speak, 
["hough  it  can  wet  with  tears  the  hardiest 

cheek. 

And  when  thy  beauty  in  the  shadowy  cave 
Is  hidden,  buried  in  its  monthly  grave  ; 
Then,  while  the  Sailor  mid  an  open  sea 
Swept  by   a  favouring   wind    that    leaves 

thought  free, 
Paces  the  deck — no  star  perhaps  in  sight, 
And  nothing  save  the  moving  ship's  own 

light 
To  cheer  the  long  dark  hours  of  vacant 

night— 
Oft  with  his  musings  does  thy  image  blend, 
In  his  mind's  eye  thy  crescent  horns  ascend, 
And  thou  art  still,  O  Moon,  that  Sailor's 

Friend  ! 


TO  THE  MOON. 

(rydal.) 

Queen  of  the  stars  ! — so  gentle  so  benign, 
That  ancient  Fable  did  to  thee  assign, 
When   darkness   creeping  o'er   thy   silver 

brow 
Warned  thee  these  upper  regions  to  forego, 
Alternate  empire  in  the  shades  below — 
A  Bard,  who,  lately  near  the  wide-spread 

sea 
Traversed  by  gleaming  ships  looked  up  to 

thee 
With    grateful   thoughts,    doth    now    thy 

rising  hail 
From  the  close  confines  of  a  shadowy  vale. 
Glory  of  night,  conspicuous  yet  serene, 
Nor  less  attractive  when  by  glimpses  seen 
Through  cloudy  umbrage,  well  might  that 

fair  face, 
And  all  those  attributes  of  modest  grace, 
In  days  when  Fancy  wrought  unchecked 

by  fear, 
Down  to  the  green  earth  fetch  thee  from  thy 

sphere, 
To  sit  in  leafy  woods  by  fountains  clear  ! 


O  still  beloved  (for  thine,  meek  Power, 
are  charms 
That  fascinate  the  very  Babe  in  arms, 
\\  lnle    he,    uplifted    towards   thee,    laughs 
outright,  [Mother's  sight) 

Spreading    his   little    palms    in   his   glad 
O  still  beloved,  once  worshipped  !    Time, 

that  frowns 
In  his  destructive  flight  on  earthly  crowns, 
Spares  thy  mild  splendour;  still  those  far- 
shot  beams  [streams 
Tremble  on  dancing  waves  and  rippling 
Witli  stainless  touch,  as  chaste  as  when  thy 

praise 
Was  sung  by  Virgin-choirs  in  festal  lays  ; 
And  through  dark  trials  still  dost  thou  ex- 
plore 
Thy  way  for  increase  punctual  as  of  yore, 
When  teeming  Matrons— yielding  to  rude 

faith 
In  mysteries  of  birth  and  life  and  death 
And   painful    struggle  and   deliverance  — 

prayed 
Of  thee  to  visit  them  with  lenient  aid. 
What  though  the  rites  be  swept  away,  the 

fanes 
Extinct  that  echoed  to  the  votive  strains  ; 
Yet  thy  mild  aspect  does  not,  cannot  cease, 
Love  to  promote  and  purity  and  peace  ; 
And  Fancy, unreproved,  even  yet  may  trace 
Faint  typesof  suffering  in  thy  beamless  face. 

Then,  silent  Monitress  !  let  us — not  blind 
To  worlds  unthought  of  till  the  searching 

mind 
Of  Science  laid  them  open  to  mankind — 
Told,    also,    how    the    voiceless    heavens 

declare 
God's  glory  ;  and  acknowledging  thy  share 
In   that    blest    charge  ;    let    us — without 

offence 
To  ought  of  highest,  holiest,  influence — 
Receive  whatever  good  'tis  given  thee  to 

dispense. 
May  sage  and  simple,  catching  with  one 

eye 
The  moral  intimations  of  the  sky, 
Learn  from  thy  course,  where'er  their  own 

be  taken, 
"To    look    on    tempests,    and   be  never 

shaken ;"  [way 

To  keep  with  faithful  step  the  appointed 
Eclipsing  or  eclipsed,  by  night  or  day, 
And  from  example  of  thy  monthly  range 
<  )ently  to  brook  decline  and  fatal  change  ; 
Meek,  patient,   steadfast,   and  with  loftier 

scope, 
Than  thv  revival  yields,  for  gladsome  hope' 


:72 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


IMPROMPTU. 

The  sun  has  long  been  set, 

The  stars  are  out  by  twos  and  threes, 
The  little  birds  are  piping  yet 

Among  the  bushes  and  the  trees  ; 
There's  a  cuckoo,  and  one  or  two  thrushes, 
And  a  far-off  wind  that  rushes, 
And  a  sound  of  water  that  gushes, 
And  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  cry 
Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky. 

Who  would  '  go  parading ' 
In  London,  '  and  masquerading,' 
On  such  a  night  of  June 
With  that  beautiful  half-moon, 
And  all  these  innocent  blisses  ? 
On  such  a  night  as  this  is  ! 


SONNET. 

I   WATCH,  and  long  have  watched,   with 

calm  regret 
Yon  slowly-sinking  star — immortal  Sire 
(So  might  he  seem)  of  all  the  glittering 

quire  ! 
Blue  ether  still  surrounds  him — yet — and 

yet; 
Rut  now  the  horizon's  rocky  parapet 
Is   reached,    where,    forfeiting   his   bright 

attire, 
He  burns — transmuted  to  a  dusky  fire  — 
Then  pays  submissively  the  appointed  debt 
To   the   flying  moments,   and  is  seen  no 

more. 
Angels  and  gods  !    we  struggle  with  our 

fate, 
While   health,    power,    glory,   from    their 

height  decline, 
Depressed  ;  and  then  extinguished  :    and 

our  state. 
In  this,  how  different,  lost  Star,  from  thine, 
That  no  to-morrow  shall  our  beams  restore  ! 


ELEGIAC  PIECES. 

TO    LAMB. 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory 
This  htone  is  sacred.     Here  he  lies  apart 
From  the  great  city  where  he  first  drew 

breath, 
Was    reared     and     taught  ;    and    humbly 

earned  his  bread, 


To   the  strict   labours   of  the   merchant's 

desk  [tasks 

Ry  duty  chained.     Not  seldom  did  those 
Tease,   and  the  thought  of  time  so  spent 

depress, 
His  spirit,  but  the  recompense  was  high  ; 
Firm  Independence,  Bounty's  rightful  sire  ; 
Affections,  warm  as  sunshine,  free  as  air  ; 
And  when   the   precious   hours  of  leisure 

came,  Lconverse  sweet 

Knowledge   and    Wisdom,     gained  from 
With    books,    or    while    he    ranged    the 

crowded  streets 
With  a  keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart  : 
So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong, 
And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  thought- 
ful love 
Inspired — works   potent   over  smiles   and 

tears, 
And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning 

plays, 
Thus  innocently  sported,  breaking  forth 
As  from  a  cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy, 
Humour  and  wild  instinctive  wit,  and  all 
The  vivid  flashes  of  his  spoken  words. 
From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in 

fields 
Had  been   derived   the  name  he  bore — a 

name, 
Wherever  Christian  altars  have  been  raised, 
Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence  ; 
And  if  in  him  meekness  at  times  gave  way, 
Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange, 
Manv   and   strange,    that  hung  about  his 

life; 
Still,  at  the  centre  of  his  being,  lodged 
A  soul  by  resignation  sanctified  : 
And  if  too  often,  self-reproached,  he  felt 
That  innocence  belongs  not  to  our  kind, 
A  power  that  never  ceased  to  abide  in  him, 
Charity,  'mid  the  multitude  of  sins 
That  she  can  cover,  left  not  his  exposed 
To   an   unforgiving  judgment    from    just 

Heaven. 
O,  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  Man  lived  ! 

***** 
From   a   reflecting    mind   and   sorrowing 

heart  [wish, 

Those  simple  lines  flowed   with  an  earnest 
Though   but  a  doubting  hope,   and  they 

might  serve 
Fitly  to  guard  the  precious  dust  of  him 
Whose  virtues  called  them   forth.     That 

aim  is  missed  ;  [quired 

For  much   that   truth   most  urgently  re- 
Had  from  a  faltering  pen  been  asked  ir, 

vain  ; 
Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received, 


^!<''I'!,!lAM'OJ'S    l't>EWS. 


The   imperfect    record,    there    may  stand 
Lined  [air 

A  .  I  /erse  of  mine  shall  breathe  the 

Of  in  ■  uory,  or  see  the  light  of  love. 

Thou  wert  a  scorner  of  the  fields,   mv 

Friend  !  [the  fields', 

Rut  more  in  show  than  truth ;  and  from 
And    from   the   mountains,     to    thy    rural 

grave 
Transported,  my  soothed  spirit  hovers  o'er 
Its   green    untrodden    turf,    and    blowing 

(lowers;  [still 

And  taking  up  a  voice  shall  speak  (though 
We  I  by  the  theme's  peculiar  sanctity 
Which  words  less   free  presumed  not  even 

to  touch) 
Of   that    fraternal   love,   whose   heaven -lit 

lamp 
From  infancy,  through  manhood  to  the  last 
i  >f  threescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour, 
Burnt   on   with   ever-strengthening    light, 

enshrined 
Within  thy  bosom. 

"  Wonderful  "  hath  been 
The   love   established   between   man   and 

man, 
"  Passingthe  love  of  women  ;"  and  between 
Man  and    his  help-mate   in   fast  wedlock 

joined  [of  love 

Through  God,  is  raised  a  spirit  and  soul 
Without  whose  blissful  influence  Paradise 
Had  been   no  Paradise  ;    and  earth  were 

now  [form, 

A  waste  where  creatures  bearing  human 
Direst  of  savage  beasts,   would    roam    in 

fear,  [on  ; 

Joyless  and  comfortless.  Our  days  glide 
And  let  him  grieve  who  cannot  choose  but 

grieve  [Vine, 

That  he  hath  been  an  Elm  without  his 
And     her     bright     dower    of     clustering 

charities,  [have  clung 

That,  round  his  trunk  and  branches  might 
Enriching  and  adorning.      Unto  thee 
Not  so  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 
Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 
Wert  given  to  her)  a  Sister — 'tis  a  word 
Timidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek, 
The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever-kind  ; 
In  whom  thy  reason  and  intelligent  heart 
Found— for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender 

cares,  [powers, 

All     softening,     humanizing,     hallowing, 
Whether  withheld,    or    or   her    sake   un- 
sought— 
More  than  sufficient  recompense  ! 


Her  J  .v.- 
(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  t"  tell 

it  here  !) 

\\';is  as  the  love  of  mothers  ;   and 
I  .iltmg  the  boy  in  iii.in     estate,  had 
The  long-protected  to  a    time  the  pari 
i  >f  a  protector,  the  first  filial  tie 
Was  undissolved  ;  and,  in  or  out  ol    ight, 
Remained  imperishably  interwoven 
With    life   itself.      Thus,    'mid   a    sli 

world, 
Did  they  together  testify  of  time 
And  season's  difference     a  double  tree 
With  two  collateral  stems  sprung  from  one 

root ;  [have  been 

Such  were  they — such  thro'  life  they  might 
In  union,  in  partition  only  such  ;      [1  [igh  ; 
<  Hherwise  wrought  the  will  of  the    Most 
Yet,  through  all  visitations  and  all  trials, 
Still   they   were   faithful  ;   like   two   vessels 

launched 
From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore 
With  mutual   help,  and  sailing — to  their 

league 
True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars 
Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

Rut  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  O  silent  and  invisible  Friend  ! 
To  those  dear  intervals,  nor  rare  nor  brief, 
When  reunited,  and  by  choice  withdrawn 
From     miscellaneous    converse,    ye    were 

taught 
That  the  remembrance  of  foregone  distress, 
And  the  worse  fear  of  future  ill  (which  oft 
Doth  hang  around  it,  as  a  sickly  child 
Upon  its  mother)  maybe  both  alike 
Disarmed  of  power  to  unsettle  present  good 
So  prized,  and  things  inward  and  outward 

held 
In  such  an  even  balance,  that  the  heart 
Acknowledges  God's  grace,  his  mercy  feels, 
And  in  its  depth  of  gratitude  is  still. 

O  gift  divine  of  quiet  sequestration  ! 
The  hermit,  exercised  in  prayer  and  praise, 
And  feeding  daily  on  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Is  happy  in  his  vow,  and  fondly  cleaves 
To  life-long  singleness  ;  but  happier  far 
Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  o, 

others, 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  appeared 
Your  dual  loneliness.     The  sacred  tie 
Is  broken  ;  yet  why  grieve?  for  time  but 

holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  Joy  shall  lead 
To  the  blest   world  where  parting  is  un- 
known. 


574 


MISCELLANEOUS  FOE  MS. 


EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE  DEATH 
OF  JAMES  HOGG. 

When  first  descending  from  the  moorlands, 
I  saw  the  Stream  of  Yarrow  glide 
Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 
The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered, 
Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 
Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways, 
My  steps  the  Border  Minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies  ; 
And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 
Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes  : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 
Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge, 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source  ; 

The  'rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth  : 
And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-sum- 
mits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumbers 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
'*  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear?" 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 
Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath, 
On   which  with  thee,    O    Crabbe  !    forth- 
looking, 
I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 
Thou  too  art  gone  before  ;  but  v/hy, 
O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ? 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 
Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep  ; 
For  Her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded, 
Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep. 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows, 
For  slaughtered  Youth  or  love-lorn  Maid  ! 
With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten, 
And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  poet 
dead. 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  EPITAPHS. 

FROM   CHIABRERA. 

Weep  not,  beloved  Friends  !  nor  let  the  air 
For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.     Not  from 

life 
Have  I  been  taken  ;  this  is  genuine  life 
And  this  alone — the  life  which  now  I  live 
In  peace  eternal ;  where  desire  and  joy 
Together  move  in  fellowship  without  end. — 
Francesco  Ceni  after  death  enjoined 
That  thus  his  tomb  should  speak  for  him. 

And  surely 
Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of 

ours 
Long  to  continue  in  this  world  ;  a  world 
That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  point  a 

hope 
To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 


True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero 
With  an  untoward  fate  was  long  involved 
In  odious  litigation  ;  and  full  long, 
Fate    harder    still  !     had    he    to    endure 

assaults 
Of  racking  malady.     And  true  it  is 
That  not  the  less  a  frank  courageous  heart 
And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain  ; 
And  he  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 
Of  the  fair  Muses.     Not  a  covert  path 
Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  forest's  shade, 
That  might  from  him  be  hidden  ;  not  a 

track 
Mounts  to  pellucid  Hippocrene,  but  he 
Had   traced    its   windings. — This  Savona 

knows, 
Yet  no  sepulchral  honours  to  her  Son 
She  paid,  for  in  our  age  the  heart  is  ruled 
Only  by  gold.     And  now  a  simple  stone 
Inscribed  with  this  memorial  here  is  raised 
By  his  bereft,  his  lonely,  Chiabrera. 
Think  not,  O  Passenger  !  who  read'st  the 

lines 
That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me  ; 
No — he  was  One  whose  memory  ought  to 

spread 
Where'er  Permessus  bears  an  honoured 

name, 
And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall 
flow. 


O  Flower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle 

blood, 
And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds,   to 

make 
Youth  amiable  ;  O  friend  so  true  of  soul 


MISCELLANEOUS  rOEMS. 


C75 


To  fair  Aglaia  ;  by  what  envy  moved, 
Lelius  !    has  death  cut  short  thy  brilliant 

day 
In  its  sweet  opening  ?  and  what  dire  mishap 
Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight  ? 
For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e'er  will  cease  to 

mourn  ;  [suffice  not 

And,  should  the  outpourings  of  her  eyes 
For  her  heart's  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto 
Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid,  Sebeto 


Who  saw  thee,   on  his   margin,   yield   to 
death, 

In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  Love  ! 
What  profit  riches?  what  does  youth  avail  ? 
Dust  are  our  hopes  ; — I,  weeping  bitterly, 
Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to 

pray 
'I  hat  every  gentle  Spirit  hither  led 
May  read  them  not  without  some  bittei 

tears. 


NOTES 


Page  jix. 

"  Highland  Hut," 

This  sonnet  describes  the  exterior  of  a  Highland  hut,  as  often  .seen  under  morning  or  evening 
sunshine.  The  reader  may  not  be  displeased  with  the  following  extract  from  the  journal  of  a 
Lady,  my  fellow-traveller  in  Scotland,  in  the  autumn  of  1803,  which  acourately  describes, 
under  particular  circumstances,  the  beautiful  appearance  of  the  interior  of  one  of  these  rude 
habitations : — 

"  On  onr  return  from  the  Trossachs  the  evening  began  to  darken,  and  it  rained  so  heavily 
that  we  were  com]  letely  wet  before  we  had  come  two  miles,  and  it  was  dark  when  we  landed 
with  our  boatman,  at  his  hut  upon  the  banks  of  Loch  Katrine.  I  was  faint  from  cold  :  the  good 
woman  had  provided,  according  to  her  promise,  a  better  fire  than  we  had  found  in  the  morning  ; 
and,  indeed,  when  I  sat  down  in  the  chimney  corner  of  her  smoky  biggin,  I  thought  1  had  never 
felt  more  comfortable  in  my  life  :  a  pan  of  coffee  was  boiling  for  us,  and,  having  put  our  clothes 
in  the  way  of  drying,  we  all  sat  down  thankful  for  a  shelter.  We  could  not  prevail  upon  our 
boatman,  the  master  of  the  house,  to  draw  near  the  fire,  though  he  was  cold  and  wet,  or  to  suffer 
his  wife  to  get  him  dry  clothes  till  she  had  served  us,  which  she  did  most  willingly,  though  not 
very  expeditiously. 

"A  Cumberland  man  of  the  same  rank  would  not  have  had  such  a  notion  of  what  was  fit  and  right 
in  his  own  house,  or,  if  he  had,  one  would  have  accused  him  of  servility ;  but  in  the  Highlander  it 
1  >nly  seemed  like  politeness  (however  erroneous  and  painful  to  us,  naturally  growing  out  of  the 
dependence  of  the  inferiors  of  the  clan  upon  their  laird  :  he  did  not,  however,  refuse  to  let  his  wife 
bring  out  the  whisky  bottle  for  his  refreshment,  at  our  request.  '  She  keeps  a  dram,'  as  the 
phrase  is  :  indeed,  I  believe  there  is  scarcely  a  lonely  house  by  the  wayside,  in  Scotland,  where 
travellers  may  not  be  accommodated  with  a  dram.  We  asked  for  sugar,  butter,  barley-bread,  and 
milk  ;  and,  with  a  smile  and  a  stare  more  of  kindness  than  wonder,  she  replied,  '  Ye'll  get  that,' 
bringing  each  article  separately.  We  caroused  our  cups  of  coffee,  laughing  like  children  at  the 
strange  atmosphere  in  which  we  were  :  the  smoke  came  in  gusts,  and  spread  along  the  walls  ;  anj 
above  our  neads  in  the  chimney  (where  the  hens  were  roosting)  like  clouds  in  the  sky.  We 
laughed  and  laughed  again,  in  spite  of  the  smarting  of  our  eyes,  yet  had  a  quieter  pleasure  in  ob- 
serving the  beauty  of  the  beams  and  rafters  gleaming  between  the  clouds  of  smoke  :  they  had  been 
crusted  over,  and  varnished  by  many  winters,  till,  where  the  firelight  fell  upon  them,  they  had 
become  as  glossy  as  black  rocks,  on  a  sunny  day,  cased  in  ice.  When  we  had  eaten  our  supper 
we  sat  about  half  an  hour,  and  I  think  I  never  felt  so  deeply  the  blessing  of  a  hospitable  welcome 
and  a  warm  fire.  The  man  of  the  house  repeated  from  time  to  time  that  we  should  often  tell  of 
this  night  when  we  got  to  our  homes,  and  interposed  praises  of  his  own  lake,  which  he  had  more 
thaivonce,  when  we  were  returning  in  the  boat,  ventured  to  say  was  '  bonnier  than  Loch  Lomond.' 
Our  companion  from  the  Trossachs,  who,  it  appeared,  was  an  Edinburgh  drawing  master  going, 
during  the  vacation,  on  a  pedestrian  tour  to  John  o'Groat's  house,  was  to  sleep  in  the  barn  with 
my  fellow-travellers,  where  the  man  said  he  had  plenty  of  dry  hay.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  hay 
of  the  Highlands  is  ever  very  dry,  but  this  year  it  had  a  better  chance  than  usual  :  wet  or  dry, 
however,  the  next  morning  they  said  they  had  slept  comfortably.  When  I  went  to  bed,  the 
mistress,  desiring  me  to  'go  ben,'  attended  me  with  a  candle,  and  assured  me  that  the  bed  wis 
dry,  though  not  'sic  as  I  had  been  used  to.'  It  was  of  chaff;  there  were  two  others  in  the  room, 
ird  and  two  chests,  upon  one  of  which  stood  milk  in  wooden  vessels,  covered  over.  The 
walls  of  the  whole  house  were  of  stone  unplastcred  :  it  consisted  of  three  apartments,  the  cowhouse 
at  one  end,  the  kitchen  or  house  in  the  middle,  and  the  spence  at  the  other  end  ;  the  rooms  were 
divided,  not  up  to  the  rigging,  but  only  to  the  beginning  of  the  roof,  so  that  there  was  a  free 
passage  for  light  and  smoke  from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the  other.  I  went  to  bed  some  time 
before  the  rest  of  the  family  :  the  door  was  shut  between  us,  and  they  had  a  bright  fire,  which  I 
could  not  see,  but  the  light  it  sent  up  among  the  varnished  rafters  and  beams,  which  crossed  each 
other  in  almost  as  intricate  and  fantastic  a  manner  as  I  have  seen  the  under  boughs  of  a  large  beech 
tree  withered  by  the  depth  of  shade  above,  produced  the  most  beautiful  effect  that  can  be  con- 
ceived.    It  was  like  what  I  should  suppose  an  underground  cave  or  temple  to  be-   with  a  dripping 


578  NOTES. 

or  moist  roof,  and  the  moonlight  entering  in  upon  it  by  some  means  or  other  ;  and  yet  the  colours 
were  more  like  those  of  melted  gems.  I  lay  looking  up  till  the  light  of  the  fire  faded  away,  and 
the  man  and  his  wifs  and  child  had  crept  into  their  bed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room :  I  did  not 
sleep  much,  but  passed  a  comfortable  night  ;  for  my  bed,  though  hard,  was  warm  and  clean  :  the 
unusualness  of  my  situation  prevented  me  from  sleeping.  I  could  hear  the  waves  beat  against 
the  shore  of  the  lake  ;  a  little  rill  close  to  the  door  made  a  much  louder  noise,  and,  when  I  sat  up 
in  my  bed,  I  could  see  the  lake  through  an  open  window-place  at  the  bed's  head.  Add  to  this,  it 
rained  all  night.  I  was  less  occupied  by  remembrance  of  the  Trossachs,  beautiful  as  they  were, 
than  the  vision  of  the  Highland  hut,  which  I  could  not  get  out  of  my  head  ;  I  thought  of  the  Fairy- 
land of  Spenser,  and  what  I  had  read  in  romance  at  other  times,  and  then  what  a  feast  it  would 
be  for  a  London  Pantomime-maker  could  he  but  transplant  it  to  Drury  Lane,  with  all  its  beautiful 
colours  1" — MS. 

Page  511. 

"  Bothwell  Castle" 

"  Once  on  those  steeps  /  roamed." 

The  following  is  from  the  same  MS.,  and  gives  an  account  of  the  visit  to  Bothwell  Castle  here 
alluded  to : — ■ 

"  It  was  exceedingly  delightful  to  enter  thus  unexpectedly  upon  such  a  beautiful  region.  The 
castle  stands  nobly,  overlooking  the  Clyde.  When  we  came  up  to  it,  I  was  hurt  to  see  that 
flower-borders  had  taken  place  of  the  natural  overgrowings  of  the  ruin,  and  scattered  stones  and 
wild  plants.  It  is  a  large  and  grand  pile  of  red  freestone,  harmonising  perfectly  with  the  rocks  of 
the  river,  from  which,  no  doubt,  it  has  been  hewn.  When  I  was  a  little  accustomed  to  the  unnatu- 
ralness  of  a  modern  garden,  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  excessive  beauty  and  luxuriance  of 
some  of  the  plants,  particularly  the  purple-flowered  clematis,  and  a  broad-leafed  creeping  plant 
without  flowers,  which  scrambled  up  the  castle  wall,  along  with  the  ivy,  and  spread  its  vine-like 
branches  so  lavishly  that  it  seemed  to  be  in  its  natural  situation,  and  one  could  not  help  thinking 
that,  though  not  self-planted  among  the  ruins  of  this  country,  it  must  somewhere  have  its  native 
abode  in  such  places.  If  Bothwell  Castle  had  not  been  close  to  the  Douglas  mansion,  we  should 
have  been  disgusted  with  the  possessor's  miserable  conception  of  adorning  such  a  venerable  ruin  ; 
but  it  is  so  very  near  to  the  house,  that  of  necessity  the  pleasure-grounds  must  have  extended 
beyond  it,  and  perhaps  the  neatness  of  a  shaven  lawn,  and  the  complete  desolation  natural  to  a 
ruin  might  have  made  an  unpleasing  contrast  ;  and,  besides  being  within  the  precincts  of  the 
pleasure-grounds,  and  so  very  near  to  the  dwelling  of  a  noble  family,  it  has  forfeited,  in  some  de- 
gree, its  independent  majesty,  and  becomes  a  tributary  to  the  mansion  :  its  solitude  being  inter- 
rupted, it  has  no  longer  the  command  over  the  mind  in  sending  it  back  into  past  times,  or  excluding 
the  ordinary  feelings  which  we  bear  about  us  in  daily  life.  We  had  then  only  to  regret  that  the 
castle  and  the  house  were  so  near  to  each  other  ;  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  regret  it;  for  the 
ruin  presides  in  state  over  the  river,  far  from  city  or  town,  as  if  it  might  have  a  peculiar  privilege 
to  preserve  its  memorials  of  past  ages  and  maintain  its  own  character  for  centuries  to  come.  We 
sat  upon  a  bench  under  the  hgh  trees,  and  had  beautiful  views  of  the  different  reaches  of  the 
river,  above  and  below.  On  the  opposite  bank,  which  is  finely  wooded  with  elms  and  other  trees, 
are  the  remains  of  a  priory,  built  upon  a  rock  ;  and  rock  and  ruin  are  so  blended,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  separate  the  one  from  the  other.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  little  remnant  of 
this  holy  place :  elm  trees  (for  we  were  near  enough  to  distinguish  them  by  their  branches)  grow 
out  of  the  walls,  and  overshadow  a  small,  but  very  elegant  window.  It  can  scarcely  be  conceived 
what  a  grace  the  castle  and  priory  impart  to  each  other  ;  and  the  river  Clyde  flows  on  smooth  and 
unruffled  below,  seeming  to  my  thoughts  more  in  harmony  with  the  sober  and  stately  images  of 
former  times,  than  if  it  had  roared  over  a  rocky  channel  forcing  its  sound  upon  the  ear.  It 
blended  gently  with  the  warbling  of  the  smaller  birds,  and  the  chattering  of  the  larger  ones,  that 
had  made  their  nests  in  the  ruins.  In  this  fortress  the  chief  of  the  English  nobility  were  con- 
fined after  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  If  a  manM  to  be  a  prisoner,  he  scarcely  could  have  a  more 
pleasant  place  to  solace  his  captivity  :  but  I  thought  that,  for  close  confinement,  I  should  prefer 
the  banks  ol  a  lake,  or  the  seaside.  The  greatest  charm  of  a  brook  or  river  is  in  the  liberty  to 
pursue  it  through  its  windings  ;  you  can  then  take  it  in  whatever  mood  you  like  ;  silent  or  noisy, 
sportive  or  quiet.  The  beauties  of  a  brook  or  river  must  be  sought,  and  the  pleasure  is  in  going 
in  search  of  them  ;  those  of  a  lake,  or  of  the  sea,  come  to  you  of  themselves.  These  rude  warriors 
cared  little,  perhaps,  about  either ;  and  yet,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  writings  of  Chaucer,  and 
from  the  old  romances,  more  interesting  passions  were  connected  with  natural  objects  in  the  days 
of  chivalry  than  now  ;  though  going  in  search  of  scenery,  as  it  is  called,  had  not  then  been  thought 
of.  I  had  previously  heard  nothing  of  Bothwell  Castle,  at  least  nothing  that  I  remembered  ; 
therefore,  perhaps,  my  pleasure  was  greater,  compared  with  what  I  received  elsewhere,  than  others 
might  feel." — MS.  Journal. 


NOTES.  579 


Page  si 2. 

"  Hart's-horn  Tree'' 

"  In  'he  time  of  the  first  Robert  dc  Clifford,  in  the  year  1333  or  1334,  Edward  Baliol  king  of 
Scotland  came  into  Westmorland,  and  stayed  some  time  with  the  said  Robert  at  his  castles  of 
Appleby.  Brougham,  and  Pendragon.  And  during  that  time  they  ran  a  stan  by  a  single  grey- 
hound out  of  Whinfell  Park  to  Redkirk,  in  Scotland,  and  back  again  to  this  place  ;  where,  being 
both  spent,  the  stag  leaped  over  the  pales,  but  died  on  the  other  side  ;  and  the  greyhound,  attempt- 
ing to  leap,  fell,  and  died  on  the  contrary  side.  In  memory  of  this  fact  the  stag's  horns  were 
nailed  upon  a  tree  just  by,  and  (the  dog  being  named  Hercules)  this  rythme  was  made  upon 
them : — 

'  Hercules  kill'd  Hart  a  grecse 
And  Hart  a  grcesc  kill'd  Hercules.' 

The  tree  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  Hart's-horn  Tree.  The  horns  in  process  of  time  were 
almost  grown  over  by  the  growth  of  the  tree,  and  another  pair  was  put  up  in  their  place." — 
Nicholson  and  Burns  s  History  of  Westmorland  and  Cumberland, 

The  tree  has  now  disappeared,  but  the  author  of  these  poems  well  remembers  its  imposing 
appearance  as  it  stood,  in  a  decayed  state,  by  the  side  of  the  high  road  leading  from  Penrith  to 
Appleby.  This  whole  neighbourhood  abounds  in  interesting  traditions  and  vestiges  of  antiquity, 
viz  ,  Julian's  Bower:  Brougham  and  Penrith  Castles ;  Penrith  Beacon,  and  the  curious  remains 
in  Penrith  churchyard  ;  Arthur's  Round  Table  ;  the  excavation,  called  the  Giant's  Cave,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Eamont ;  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters,  near  Eden,  &c.  &c. 

Page  513. 

"  The  Highland  Broach." 

The  exact  resemblance  which  the  old  Broach  (still  in  use,  though  rarely  met  with,  among  the 
Highlanders  bears  to  the  Roman  Fibula  must  strike  every  one,  and  concurs  with  the  plaid  and 
kilt  to  recall  to  mind  the  communication  which  the  ancient  Romans  had  with  this  remote  country. 
How  much  the  Broach  is  sometimes  prized  by  persons  in  humble  stations  may  be  gathered  from 
an  occurrence  mentioned  to  me  by  a  female  friend.  She  had  had  an  opportunity  of  benefiting  a 
poor  old  woman  in  her  own  hut,  who  wishing  to  make  a  return,  said  to  her  daughter,  in  Erse,  in 
a  tone  of  plaintive  earnestness,  "  I  would  give  anything  I  have,  but  I  ho/e  she  does  not  wish  for 
my  Broach  !"  and,  uttering  these  words,  she  put  her  hand  upon  the  Broach  which  fastened  her 
kerchief,  and  which,  she  imagined,  had  attracted  the  eye  of  her  benefactress. 

Page  541. 
"  To  the  River  Greta." 
"  But  if  thou  like  Cocytus,"  &c. 

Many  years  ?go,  when  the  author  was  at  Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  the  hostess  of  the  inn, 
proud  of  her  skill  in  etymology,  said,  that  "  the  name  of  the  river  was  taken  from  the  bridge, 
the  form  of  which,  as  every  one  must  notice,  exactly  resembles  a  great  A."  But  Dr.  Whitaker 
has  derived  it  from  the  word  of  common  occurrence  in  the  north  of  England,  "  to  greet ;"  signify 
ing  to  lament  aloud,  mostly  with  weeping  :  a  conjecture  rendered  more  probable  from  the  stony 
and  rocky  channel  of  both  the  Cumberland  and  Yorkshire  rivers.  The  Cumberland  Greta,  though 
it  does  not,  among  the  country  people,  take  up  that  name  till  within  three  miles  of  its  disappear- 
ance in  the  river  Derwent,  may  be  considered  as  having  its  source  in  the  mountain  cove  of 
W'ythburn,  and  flowing  through  Thirlmere,  the  beautiful  features  of  which  lake  are  known  only 
to  those  who,  travelling  between  Gnismere  and  Keswick,  have  quitted  the  main  road  in  the  vale 
of  Wythburn,  and,  crossing  over  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  have  proceeded  with  it  on  the 
right  hand. 

The  channel  of  this  Greta,  immediately  above  Keswick,  has,  for  the  purposes  of  building,  been 
in  a  great  measure  cleared  of  the  immense  stones  which,  by  their  concussion  in  high  floods,  pro- 
duced the  loud  and  awful  noises  described  in  the  sonnet. 

"The  scenery  upon  this  river,"  says  Mr.  Southey  in  his  Colloquies,  "  where  it  passes  under  the 
woody  side  of  Latrigg,  is  of  the  finest  and  most  rememberable  kind  : — 

'  ambiguo  lapsu  refluitque  fluitque, 


Occurrensquc  sibi  Venturas  aspicit  undas, 


SfiO  NOTES. 

Page  542. 

"  To  tlie  River  Derwent." 

This  sonnet  has  already  appeared  in  several  editions  of  the  author's  poems  ;  but  he  is  tempted 
to  reprint  it  in  this  place,  as  a  natural  introduction  to  the  two  that  follow  it. 

Page  543. 

"  Nun's  Well,  Brigham." 

"  By  hooded  votaries,"  &c. 

Attached  to  the  church  of  Brigham  was  formerly  a  chantry,  which  held  a  moiety  of  the  manor, 
and  in  the  decayed  parsonage  some  vestiges  of  monastic  architecture  are  still  to  be  seen. 

Page  543. 

"Mary  Queen  oj Scots  landing  at  Workington." 

"  The  fears  and  impatience  of  Mary  were  so  great,"  says  Robertson,  "  that  she  got  into  a 
fisher-boat,  and  with  about  twenty  attendants  landed  at  Workington,  in  Cumberland  ;  and  thence 
she  was  conducted  with  many  marks  of  respect  to  Carlisle."  The  apartment  in  which  the  Queen 
had  slept  at  Workington  Hall  (where  she  was  received  by  Sir  Henry  Curwen  as  became  her  rank 
and  misfortunes)  was  long  preserved,  out  of  respect  to  her  memory,  as  she  had  left  it ;  and  one 
cannot  but  regret  that  some  necessary  alterations  in  the  mansion  could  not  be  effected  without  its 
destruction. 

Page  544. 

"  On  entering  Douglas  Bay,  hie  of  Man." 

"They  are  led  by  noble  Hillary." 

The  Tower  of  Reftge,  an  ornament  to  Douglas  Bay,  was  erected  chiefly  through  the 
humanity  and  zeal  of  Sir  William  Hillary  ;  and  he  also  was  the  founder  of  the  lifeboat  establish- 
ment, at  that  place :  by  which,  under  his  superintendence,  and  often  by  his  exertions  at  the 
imminent  hazard  of  his  own  life,  many  seamen  and  passengers  have  been  saved. 

Page  545. 

"By  a  retired  Mariner." 

This  unpretending  sonnet  is  by  a  gentleman  nearly  connected  with  the  author,  who  hopes,  as  it 
falls  so  easily  into  its  place,  that  both  the  writer  and  the  reader  will  excuse  its  appearance  here. 

Page  545. 

*'  Tynwald  Hill. " 

"  Off  with  yon  cloud,  old  Snafell  !" 

The  summit  of  this  mountain  is  well  chosen  by  Cowley,  as  the  scene  of  the  "Vision,"  in  which 
the  spectral  angel  discourses  with  him  concerning  the  government  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  "  I  found 
myself,"  says  he,  "on  the  top  of  that  famous  hill  in  the  Island  Mona,  which  has  the  prospect  of 
three  great,  and  not  long  since  most  happy,  kingdoms.  As  soon  as  ever  I  looked  upon  them,  they 
called  forth  the  sad  representation  of  all  the  sins  and  all  the  miseries  that  had  overwhelmed  them 
these  twenty  years."  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  changes  now  in  progress,  and  the  passions, 
and  the  way  in  which  they  work,  strikingly  resemble  those  which  led  to  the  disasters  the 
philosophic  writer  so  feelingly  bewails.  God  grant  that  the  resemblance  may  not  become  still 
more  striking  as  months  and  years  advance  ! 

Page  546. 

"On  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle." 

This  ingenious  piece  of  workmanship,  as  the  author  afterwards  learned,  had  been  executed  for 
viieir  own  amusement  bv  some  labourers  employed  about  the  place. 


NOTUS.  681 

Page  547. 

"  Cave  o/Staffa" 

The  reader  may  be  tempted  to  exclaim,  "  How  came  this  and  the  two  following  sonnel  to  bi 
written,  after  the  dissatisfaction  expressed  in  the  preceding  one?"  In  fact,  at  the  risk  of  incurring 
the  reasonable  displeasure  of  the  master  of  the  Steam-boat,  the  author  returned  to  the  cave,  am' 
explored  it  under  circumstances  more  favourable  to  those  imaginative  impressions,  which  it  is  so 
wonderfully  titled  to  make  upon  the  nund. 

Page  547. 

"Sonnet  29." 

"  Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast, 
Children  of  Summer  !" 

Upon  the  head  of  the  columns  which  form  the  front  of  the  cave,  rests  a  body  of  decom] i 

basaltic  matter,  \\  hich  was  richly  decorated  with  that  large  bright  flower,  the  ox-eyed  daisy.  The 
author  had  noticed  the  same  flower  growing  with  profusion  among  the  bold  rocks  on  the  western 
coast  of  the  Isle  of  Man  ;  making  a  brilliant  contrast  with  their  black  and  gloomy  surfaces. 

Page  548. 

"  Zona." 

The  four  last  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  adopted  from  a  well  known  sonnet  of  Russel,  as  conveying 
he  author's  feeling  better  than  any  words  of  his  own  could  do. 

Page  549. 

"  The  River  Eden." 

"Yet  fetched  from  Paradise,"  &c. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  there  is  more  of  the  poet  than  the  sound  etymologist  in  this  derivation 
nf  the  name  Eden.  On  the  western  coast  of  Cumberland  is  a  rivulet  which  enters  the  sea  at 
Moresby,  known  also  in  the  neighbourhood  by  the  name  of  Kdcn.  May  not  the  latter  syllable 
come  from  the  word  Dean,  a  valley  ?  Langdale,  near  Ambleside,  is  by  the  inhabitants  called 
Langden.  The  former  syllable  occurs  in  the  name  Eamont,  a  principal  feeder  of  the  Eden;  and 
the  stream  which  flows,  when  the  tide  is  out,  over  Cartmel  Sands,  is  called  the  Ea. 

Page  550. 

"Nunnery." 

"  Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway,  tell  !" 

At  Corby,  a  few  miles  below  Nunnery,  the  Eden  is  crossed  by  a  magnificent  viaduct  ;  and 
another  of  these  works  is  thrown  over  a  deep  glen  or  ravine  at  a  very  short  distance  from  the 
main  stream. 

Page  550. 

"  To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale." 

This  sonnet  was  written  immediately  after  certain  trials,  which  took  place  at  the  Cumberland 
Assizes,  when  the  Earl  cf  Lonsdale,  in  consequence  of  repeated  and  long  continued  attacks  upon 
his  character,  through  the  local  press,  had  thought  it  right  to  prosecute  the  conductors  and 
proprietors  of  three  several  journals.  A  verdict  of  libel  was  given  in  one  case  ;  and  in  the  other  , 
the  prosecutions  were  withdrawn,  upon  the  individuals  retracting  and  disavowing  the  charges, 
expressing  regret  that  they  had  been  made,  and  promising  to  abstain  from  the  like  in  future. 


683 


APPENDIX. 


DEDICATION  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 

TO  SIR  GEORGE  HOWLAND  BEAUMONT,  BART. 

My  dear  Sir  George, — Accept  my  thanks  for  the  permission  given  me  to  dedicate 
these  poems  to  you. — In  addition  to  a  lively  pleasure  derived  from  general  considera- 
tions, I  feel  a  particular  satisfaction  ,  for,  by  inscribing  them  with  your  name,  I  seem  to 
myself  in  some  degree  to  repay,  by  an  appropriate  honour,  the  great  obligation  which  I 
owe  to  one  part  of  the  collection — as  having  been  the  means  of  first  making  us  person- 
ally known  to  each  other.  Upon  much  of  the  remainder,  also,  you  have  a  peculiar 
claim, — for  several  of  the  best  pieces  were  composed  under  the  shade  of  your  own 
groves,  upon  the  classic  ground  of  Coleorton  ;  where  I  was  animated  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  those  illustrious  poets  of  your  name  and  family,  who  were  born  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and,  we  maybe  assured,  did  not  wander  with  indifference,  by  the  dashing 
stream  of  Grace  Dieu,  and  among  the  rocks  that  diversify  the  forest  of  Charnwood. — 
Nor  is  there  any  one  to  whom  such  parts  of  this  collection  as  have  been  inspired  or 
coloured  by  the  beautiful  country  from  which  I  now  address  you,  could  be  presented 
with  more  propriety  than  to  yourself — who  have  composed  so  many  admirable  pictures 
from  the  suggestions  of  the  same  scenery.  Early  in  life,  the  sublimity  and  beauty  of 
this  region  excited  your  admiration  ;  and  I  know  that  you  are  bound  to  it  in  mind  by  a 
still-strengthening  attachment. 

Wishing  and  hoping  that  these  poems  may  survive  as  a  lasting  memorial  of  a  friend- 
ship, which  I  reckon  among  the  blessings  of  my  life, 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  my  dear  Sir  George, 

Yours  most  affectionately  and  faithfully, 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH, 

Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland,  February  1,  icjis. 


2    K 


584 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


The  observations  prefixed  to  that  portion  of  this  work  which  was  published  many 
years  ago,  under  the  title  of  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  have  so  little  of  a  special  application  to 
the  greater  part  of  the  present  enlarged  and  diversified  collection,  that  they  could  not 
with  propriety  stand  as  an  introduction  to  it.  Not  deeming  it,  however,  expedient  to 
suppress  that  exposition,  slight  and  imperfect  as  it  is,  of  the  feelings  which  had  deter- 
mined the  choice  of  the  subjects,  and  the  principles  which  had  regulated  the  composition 
of  those  pieces,  I  have  placed  it  so  as  to  form  an  essay  supplementary  to  the  preface,  to 
be  attended  to,  or  not,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  reader. 

In  the  preface  to  that  part  of  "The  Recluse,"  lately  published  under  the  title  of 
"The  Excursion,"  I  have  alluded  to  a  meditated  arrangement  of  my  minor  poems, 
which  should  assist  the  attentive  reader  in  perceiving  their  connexion  with  each  other, 
and  also  their  subordination  to  that  work.  I  shall  here  say  a  few  words  explanatory  of 
this  arrangement,  as  carried  into  effect  in  the  present  work. 

The  powers  requisite  for  the  production  of  poetry  are,  first,  those  of  observation  and 
description  ;  i.e.,  the  ability  to  observe  with  accuracy  things  as  they  are  in  themselves, 
and  with  fidelity  to  describe  them,  unmodified  by  any  passion  or  feeling  existing  in  the 
mind  of  the  describer  ;  whether  the  things  depicted  be  actually  present  to  the  senses, 
or  have  a  place  only  in  the  memory.  This  power,  although  indispensable  to  a  poet,  is 
one  which  he  employs  only  in  submission  to  necessity,  and  never  for  a  continuance  of 
time  :  as  its  exercise  supposes  all  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind  to  be  passive,  and  in 
a  state  of  subjection  to  external  objects,  much  in  the  same  way  as  the  translator  or 
engraver  ought  to  be  to  his  original.  2ndly,  Sensibility, — which,  the  more  exquisite  it 
is,  the  wider  will  be  the  range  of  a  Poet's  perceptions  ;  and  the  more  will  he  be  incited 
to  observe  objects,  both  as  they  exist  in  themselves  and  as  re-acted  upon  by  his  own 
mind.  (The  distinction  between  poetic  and  human  sensibility  has  been  marked  in  the 
character  of  the  poet  delineated  in  the  original  preface,  before  mentioned.)  sdiy. 
Reflection, — which  makes  the  poet  acquainted  with  the  value  of  actions,  images,  thoughts, 
and  feelings  ;  and  assists  the  sensibility  in  perceiving  their  connexion  with  each  other. 
4thly,  Imagination  and  fancy, — to  modify,  to  create,  and  to  associate.  5thly,  Invention, 
— by  which  characters  are  composed  out  of  materials  supplied  by  observation — whether 
of  the  poet's  own  heart  and  mind,  or  of  external  life  and  nature  ;  and  such  incidents 
and  situations  produced  as  are  most  impressive  to  the  imagination,  and  most  fitted  to  do 
justice  to  the  characters,  sentiments,  and  passions,  which  the  poet  undertakes  to  illus- 
trate. And  lastly,  Judgment, — to  decide  how  and  where,  and  in  what  degree,  each  ol 
these  faculties  ought  to  be  exerted  ;  so  that  the  less  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  greater; 
nor  the  greater,  slighting  the  less,  arrogate,  to  its  own  injury,  more  than  its  due.  By 
judgment,  also,  is  determined  what  are  the  laws  and  appropriate  graces  of  every  species 
of  composition. 

The  materials  of  poetry,  by  these  powers  collected  and  produced,  are  cast,  by  means 
•)f  various  moulds,  into  divers  forms.  The  moulds  may  be  enumerated,  and  the  forms 
jpecified,  in  the  following  order.  ist,  the  Narrative, — including  the  epopceia,  the 
historic  poem,  the  tale,  the  romance,  the  mock  heroic,  and,  if  the  spirit  of  Homer  will 
tolerate  such  neighbourhood,  that  dear  production  of  our  days,  the  metrical  novel.  Oi 
this  class,  the  distinguishing  mark  is,  that  the  narrator,  however  liberally  his  speaking- 
agents  be  introduced,  is  himself  the  source  from  which  every  thing  primarily  flows.  Epic 
poets,  in  order  that  their  mode  of  composition  may  accord  with  the  elevation  of  their 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815.  5S5 

subject,  represent  themselves  as  stug/rig  from  the  inspiration  of  the  Muse,  "  Arma  virum- 
que  cano  ;"  but  this  is  a  fiction,  in  modern  times,  of  slight  value  :  the  "  Iliad"  or  the 
"  Paradise  Lost"  would  gain  little  in  our  estimation  by  bring  chanted.  The  other  poets 
who  belong  to  this  class  are  commonly  content  to  tell  their  tale  ; — so  that  of  the  whole 
it  may  be  affirmed  that  they  neither  require  nor  reject  the  accompaniment  of  music. 

2ndly,  The  Dramatic, — consisting  oi  tragedy,  historic  drama,  comedy,  and  masque,  " 
in  which  the  poet  does  not  appear  at  all  in  Ins  own  person,  and  where  the  whole  action 
is  carried  on  by  speech  and  dialogue  of  the  agents;  music  being  admitted  only  inci- 
dentally and  rarely.  The  opera  may  be  placed  here,  inasmuch  as  it  proceeds  by 
dialogue;  though,  depending,  to  the  degree  that  it  does  upon  music,  it  lias  a  strong 
claim  to  be  ranked  with  the  Lyrical.  The  characteristic  and  impassioned  Epistle,  ol 
which  Ovid  and  1  'ope  have  given  examples,  considered  as  a  species  of  monodrama,  may. 
without  impropriety,  be  placed  in  this  class. 

3dly,  The  Lyrical,— containing   the   hymn,  the  ode,  the   elegy,  the  song,  and  the  " 
ballad  ;  in  all  which,  lor  the  production  of  their  full  effect,  an  accompaniment  of  music 
is  indispensable. 

athly,  The  Idyllium, — descriptive  chiefly  either  of  the  processes  and  appearances  ol 
external  nature,  as  "  The  Seasons"  of  Thomson  ,  or  of  characters,  manners,  and  senti- 
ments, as  are  Shenstone's  "Schoolmistress,"  "  The  Cotters  Saturday  Night"  of  Burns, 
"  The  Twa  Dogs"  of  the  same  author  ;  or  of  these  in  conjunction  with  the  appearances 
of  nature,  as  most  of  the  pieces  of  Theocritus,  the  "Allegro"  and  "  1'enseroso"  of 
Milton,  Realties  "  Minstrel,"  Goldsm  ith's  "J  (eserted  Village."  The  epitaph,  the  inscrip- 
tion, the  sonnet,  most  of  the  epistles  of  poets  writing  in  their  own  persons,  and  all  loco- 
descriptive  poetry,  belong  to  this  class. 

5thly,  Didactic, — the  principal  object  of  which  is  direct  instruction  ;  as  the  poem  of 
Lucretius,  "The  Georgics.'  of  Virgil,  "The  Fleece"  of  Dyer,  Mason's'  English 
Garden,"  etc. 

And,  lastly,    philosophical   satire,  like  that  of  Horace  and  Juvenal;  personal  and  • 
occasional  satire  rarely  comprehending  sufficient  of  the  general  in  the  individual  to  be 
dignified  with  the  name  of  poetry 

Out  of  the  three  last  has  been  constructed  a  composite  order,   of  which  Young's  * 
"  Night  Thoughts,"  and  CowjDer's  "Task,'  are  excellent  examples. 

It  is  deducible  from  the  above,  that  poems,  apparently  miscellaneous,  may,  with 
propriety,  be  arranged  either  with  reference  to  the  powers  of  mind  predominant  in  the 
production  of  them  ;  or  to  the  mould  in  which  they  are  cast ;  or,  lastly,  to  the  subjects 
to  which  they  relate.  From  each  of  these  considerations,  the  following  poems  have 
been  divided  into  classes  ;  which,  that  the  work  may  more  obviously  correspond  with 
the  course  of  human  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  in  it  the  three  requisites  of  a  . 
legitimate  whole,  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  have  been  also  arranged,  as  far  as  ■ 
it  was  possible,  according  to  an  order  of  time,  commencing  with  childhood,  and  termi- 
nating with  old  age,  death,  and  immortality.  My  guiding  wish  was,  that  the  small 
pieces  thus  discriminated  might  be  regarded  under  a  two-fold  view;  as  composing  an 
entire  work  within  themselves,  and  as  adjuncts  to  the  philosophical  poem,  "The 
Recluse.'  This  arrangement  has  long  presented  itself  habitually  to  my  own  mind 
Nevertheless,  I  should  have  preferred  to  scatter  the  little  poems  alluded  to  at  random, 
if  I  had  been  persuaded  that,  by  the  plan  adopted,  anything  material  would  be  taken 
from  the  natural  effect  of  the  pieces,  individually,  on  the  mind  of  the  unreflecting 
reader.  I  trust  there  is  a  sufficient  variety  in  each  class  to  prevent  this  :  while,  for  him 
who  reads  with  reflection,  the  arrangement  will  serve  as  a  commentary  unostentatiously 
directing  his  attention  to  my  purposes,  both  particular  and  general.  But,  as  I  wish  tu 
guard  against  the  possibility  of  misleading  by  this  classification,  it  is  proper  first  to 
remind  the  reader,  that  certain  poems  are  placed  according  to  the  powers  of  mind,  in 
the  author's  conception,  predominant  in  the  production  of  them  ;  predominant,  which 
implies  the  exertion  of  other  faculties  in  less  degree.  Where  there  is  more  imagination 
than  fancy  in  a  poem,  it  is  placed  under  the  head  of  imagination,  and  vice  versa.  Roth 
the  above  classes  might  without  impropriety  have  been  enlarged  from  that  consisting  of 
"  Poems  Founded  on  the  Affections  ;"  as  niight  this  latter  from  those,  and  from  the 
class  "  Proceeding  from  Sentiment  and  Reflection."     The  most  striking  characteristics 


$86  PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 

of  each  piece,  mutual  illustration,  variety,  and  proportion,  have  governed  me  through- 
out. 

It  may  be  proper  in  this  place  to  state,  that  the  extracts  in  the  second  [first]  class, 
entitled  "juvenile  Pieces, "  are  in  many  places  altered  from  printed  copy,  chiefly  by 
omission  and  compression.  The  slight  alterations  of  another  kind  were  for  the  most 
part  made  not  long  after  the  publication  of  the  poems  from  which  the  extracts  are 
taken.*  These  extracts  seem  to  have  a  title  to  be  placed  here,  as  they  were  the  produc- 
tions of  youth,  and  represent  implicitly  some  of  the  features  of  a  youthful  mind,  at  a 
time  when  images  of  nature  supplied  to  it  the  place  of  thought,  sentiment,  and  almost 
of  action  ;  or,  as  it  will  be  found  expressed,  of  a  state  of  mind  when 

"  the  sounding  cataract  • 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite,  a  feeling,  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye." 

I  will  own  that  I  was  much  at  a  loss  what  to  select  of  these  descriptions  :  and  perhaps 
it  would  have  been  better  either  to  have  reprinted  the  whole,  or  suppressed  what  I  have 
given. 

None  of  the  other  classes,  except  those  of  fancy  and  imagination,  require  any  par- 
ticular notice.  But  a  remark  of  general  application  may  be  made.  All  poets,  except 
the  dramatic,  have  been  in  the  practice  of  feigning  that  their  works  were  composed  to 
the  music  of  the  harp  or  lyre:  with  what  degree  of  affectation  this  has  been  done  in 
modern  times,  I  leave  to  the  judicious  to  determine.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  not  been 
disposed  to  violate  probability  so  far,  or  to  make  such  a  large  demand  upon  the  reader's 
charity.  Some  of  these  pieces  are  essentially  lyrical  ;  and  therefore,  cannot  have  their 
clue  force  without  a  supposed  musical  accompaniment  ;  but,  in  much  the  greatest  part, 
as  a  substitute  for  the  classic  lyre  or  romantic  harp,  I  require  nothing  more  than  an 
animated  or  impassioned  recitation,  adapted  to  the  subject.  Poems,  however  humble 
in  their  kind,  if  they  be  good  in  that  kind,  cannot  read  themselves  •  the  law  of  long 
syllable  and  short  must  not  be  so  inflexible, — the  letter  of  metre  must  not  be  so  impas- 
sive to  the  spirit  of  versification, — as  to  deprive  the  reader  of  a  voluntary  power  to 
modulate,  in  subordination  to  the  sense,  the  music  of  the  poem  ; — in  the  same  manner 
ns  his  mind  is  left  at  liberty,  and  even  summoned,  to  act  upon  its  thoughts  and  images. 
But  though  the  accompaniment  of  a  musical  instrument  be  frequently  dispensed  with, 
the  true  poet  does  not  therefore  abandon  his  privilege  distinct  from  that  of  the  mere 
proseman — 

"  He  murmurs  rear  the  running  brooks 
A  music  swef'.er  than  their  own." 

I  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  die  words  Fancy  and  Imagination,  as  employed 
in  the  classification  of  the  following  poems.  "A  man,"  says  an  intelligent  author, 
"has  imagination  in  proportion  as  he  can  distinctly  copy  in  idea  the  impressions  of 
sense  :  it  is  the  faculty  which  images  within  the  mind  the  phenomena  of  sensation.  A 
man  has  fancy  in  proportion  as  he  can  call  up,  connect,  or  associate,  at  pleasure,  those 
internal  images  (4,avra^uv  is  to  cause  to  appear)  so  as  to  complete  ideal  representations 
of  absent  objects.  Imagination  is  the  power  of  depicting,  and  fancy  of  evoking  and 
combining.  The  imagination  is  formed  by  patient  observation  ;  the  fancy  by  a  voluntary 
activity  in  shifting  the  scenery  of  the  mind.  The  more  accurate  the  imagination,  the 
■riore  safely  may  a  painter,  or  a  poet,  undertake  a  delineation,  or  a  description,  without 
the  presence  of  the  objects  to  be  characterized.  The  more  versatile  the  fancy,  the  more 
original  and  striking  will  be  the  decorations  produced." — British  Synonyms  Discrimi- 
nated, by  W.  Taylor, 


These  poems  are  now  printed  entire. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  i8i5.  537 

Is  not  this  as  if  a  man  should  undertake  to  supply  an  account  of  a  building,  and  be 
so  intent  upon  what  he  had  discovered  of  the  foundation  as  to  conclude  his  task  without 
once  looking  vrp  at  the  superstructure ?    Here,  as  in  other  instances   throughout  the 

volume,  the  judicious  author's  mind  is  enthralled  by  etymology  ;  he  takes  up  the  original 
word  as  his  guide  and  escort,  and  too  often  docs  not  perceive  how  soon  he  becomes  its 
prisoner,  without  liberty  to  tread  in  any  path  but  that  to  which  it   confines  him. 

\  to  find  out  how  imagination,  thus  explained,  differs  from  distinct  remembrance 
of  images;  or  fancy  from  quick  and  vivid  recollection  of  them  :  each  is  nothing  more 
than  a  mod.-  of  memory.  [I  the  tw>>  umd  .  1>  arthe  above  meaning,  and  nonthrr,  what 
t.-nn  is  left  to  designate  that  faculty  of  which  the  poet  is  "  all  compact ;"  he 

ces  from  earth  to  heaven,  whose  spiritual  attributes  body  forth  whal  his  pen  is 
prompt  in  turning  to  shape  ;  or  what  is  left  to  characterise  fancy,  as  insinuating  herself 
into  the  heart  of  objects  with  creative  activity  ?  Imagination,  in  the  sense  of  the  word 
as  giving  title  to  a  class  of  the  following  poems,  lias  no  reference  to  images  that  are 
merely  a  faithful  copy,  existing  in  the  mind  of  absent  external  objects  ;  but  is  a  word  of 
higher  import,  denoting  operations  of  the  mind  upon  those  objects,  and  processes  of 
on  i  t  of  composition,  governed  by  certain  fixed  laws.  I  proceed  to  illustrate  mj 
meaning  by  instances.  A  parrot  hangs  from  the  wires  ofhis  cage  by  his  beak  or  by  his 
claws;  or  a  monkey  from  the  bough  of  a  tree  by  his  paws  or  his  tail.  Each  creature 
does  so  literally  and  actually.  In  the  first  Eclogue  of  Virgil,  the  shepherd  thinking  of 
the  time  when  he  is  to  take  leave  of  his  farm,  thus  addresses  his  goats  : — 

"  Non  ego  vosposthac  viridi  projectus  in  antro 
Dumosa/««/iTi'  procul  de  rape  videbo." 

"  Half  way  down 
Hangs  one  who  gathers  samphire," 

is  the  well-known  expression  of  Shakespeare,  delineating  an  ordinary  image  upon  the 
cliffs  of  Dover.  In  the  setwo  instances  is  a  slight  exertion  of  the  faculty  which  I 
denominate  imagination,  in  the  use  of  one  word:  neither  the  goats  nor  the  samphire- 
gatherer  do  literally  hang,  as  does  the  parrot  or  the  monkey  ;  but,  presenting  to  the 
senses  something  of  such  an  appearance,  the  mind  in  its  activity,  for  its  own  gratifica- 
tion, contemplates  them  as  hanging. 

"As  when,  far  off  at  sea,  a  fleet  descried, 
J  fangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  Isles 
Of  Ternate  or  Tydore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs  :  they  on  the  trading  flood 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  Pole  :  so  seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  fiend." 

Here  is  the  full  strength  of  the  imagination  involved  in  the  word  hangs,  and  exerted 
upon  the  whole  image  :  first,  the  llect,  an  aggregate  of  many  ships,  is  represented  as 
one  mighty  person,  whose  track,  we  know  and  feel,  is  upon  the  waters  ;  but,  taking 
advantage  of  its  appearance  to  the  senses,  the  poet  dares  to  represent  it  as  /ia/igi/i^r  in 
the  clouds,  both  for  the  gratification  of  the  mind  in  contemplating  the  image  itself,  and 
in  reference  to  the  motion  and  appearance  of  the  sublime  object  to  which  it  is  compared. 

From  images  of  sight  we  will  pass  to  those  of  sound. 

"  Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock-dove  broods; 

of  the  same  bird, 

"  His  voice  was  buried  among  trees. 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze  ;" 

"O  cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  t" 

The  stock-dove  is  said  to  coo,  a  sound  well  imitating  the  note  of  the  bird  ;  but,  by 
the  intervention  of  the  metaphor  broods,  the  affections  are  called  in  by  the  imagination 


588  PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 

to  assist  in  marking  the  manner  in  which  the  bird  reiterates  and  prolongs  her  soft  note, 
as  if  herself  delighting  to  listen  to  it,  and  participating  of  a  still  and  quiet  satisfaction, 
like  that  which  may  be  supposed  inseparable  from  the  continuous  process  of  incubation. 
"  His  voice  was  buried  among  trees,"  a  metaphor  expressing  the  love  of  seclusion  by 
which  this  bird  is  marked  ;  and  characterising  its  note  as  not  partaking  of  the  shrill  and 
the  piercing,  and  therefore  more  easily  deadened  by  the  intervening  shade  ;  yet  a  note 
so  peculiar,  and  withal  so  pleasing,  that  the  breeze,  gifted  with  that  love  of  the  sound 
which  the  poet  feels,  penetrates  the  shade  in  which  it  is  entombed,  and  conveys  it  to  the 
ear  of  the  listener. 

"Shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice?" 

This  concise  interrogation  characterises  the  seeming  ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the 
cuckoo,  and  dispossesses  the  creature  almost  of  a  corporeal  existence  .  the  imagination 
being  tempted  to  this  exertion  of  her  power  by  a  consciousness  in  the  memory  that  the 
cuckoo  is  almost  perpetually  heard  throughout  the  season  of  spring,  but  seldom 
becomes  an  object  of  sight. 

Thus  far  of  images  independent  of  each  other,  and  immediately  endowed  by  the  mind 
with  properties  that  do  not  inhere  in  them,  upon  an  incitement  lrom  properties  and 
qualities  the  existence  of  which  is  inherent  and  obvious.  These  processes  of  imagination 
are  carried  on  either  by  conferring  additional  properties  upon  an  object,  or  abstracting 
trom  it  some  of  those  which  it  actually  possesses,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  re-act  upon 
the  mind  which  hath  performed  the  process,  like  a  new  existence. 

1  pass  from  the  imagination  acting  upon  an  individual  image  to  a  consideration  of 
the  same  faculty  employed  upon  images  in  a  conjunction  by  which  they  modify  each 
other.  The  reader  has  already  had  a  fine  instance  before  him  in  the  passage  quoted 
from  Virgil,  where  the  apparently  perilous  situation  of  the  goat,  hanging  upon  the 
shaggy  precipice,  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the  shepherd,  contemplating  it  from  the 
seclusion  of  the  cavern  in  which  he  lies  stretched  at  ease  and  in  security.  Take  these 
images  separately,  and  how  unaffecting  the  picture  compared  with  that  produced  by 
their  being  thus  connected  with,  and  opposed  to,  each  other  ! 

"  As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence 
So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense. 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  himself 

Such  seemed  this  man  .  not  all  alive  or  dead, 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age. 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood, 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call. 
And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all." 

In  these  images,  the  conferring,  the  abstracting,  and  the  modifying  powers  of  the 
imagination,  immediately  and  mediately  acting,  are  all  brought  into  conjunction.  The 
stone  is  endowed  with  something  of  the  power  of  life  to  approximate  it  to  the  sea-beast  ; 
and  the  sea-beast  stripped  of  some  of  its  vital  qualities  to  assimilate  it  to  the  stone  ; 
which  intermediate  image  is  thus  treated  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  the  original  image, 
that  of  the  stone,  to  a  nearer  resemblance  to  the  figure  and  condition  of  the  aged  man  ; 
who  is  divested  of  so  much  of  the  indications  of  life  and  motion  as  to  bring  him  to  the 
point  where  the  two  objects  unite  and  coalesce  in  just  comparison.  After  what  has  been 
said,  the  image  of  the  cloud  need  not  be  commented  upon. 

Thus  far  of  an  endowing  or  modifying  power  ;  but  the  imagination  also  shapes  and 
creates  ■  and  how  ?  By  innumerable  processes  ,  and  in  none  does  it  more  delight  than 
in  that  of  consolidating  numbers  into  unity,  and  dissolving  and  separating  unity  into 
number. — alternations  proceeding  from,  and  governed  by,  a  sublime  consciousness  of 
the  soul  in  her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine  powers.  Recur  to  the  passage  already 
cited  from   Milton.     When   the  compact   fleet,    as  one  person,  has  been  introduced 


FEE  FACE  TO  TFIE  ETHTTON  OF  1815.  589 

"Sailing  from  Rengala,"  "They,"  i.e.,  the  "Merchants,"  representing  the  fleet 
resolved  into  a  multitude  of  ships,  "ply"  their  voyage  towards  the  extremities  of  the 
earth:  "  so  "  (referring  to  the  word  "as"  in  the  commencement)  "seemed  the  (lying 
fiend  ;"  the  image  of  his  person  acting  to  recombine  the  multitude  of  ships  into  one 
body, — the  point  from  which  the  comparison  set  out.  "So seemed,''  and  to  whom 
seemed  ?  To  the  heavenly  muse  who  dictates  the  poem,  to  the  eye  of  the  poet's  mind, 
and  to  that  of  the  reader,  present  at  one  moment  in  the  wide  Ethiopian,  and  the  next 
in  the  solitudes,  then  first  broken  in  upon,  ot  the  infernal  regions  ! 

"  Modo  me  Thebis,  modo  ponit  Athenis." 

Hear  again  this  mighty  poet,— speaking  of  the  Messiah  going  forth  to  expel  from 
heaven  the  rebellious  angels, 

'"Attended  by  ten  thousand  thousand  saints 
He  omvard  came  :  far  off  his  coming  shone," 

the  retinue  of  saints  and  the  person  of  the  Messiah  himself,  lost  almost  and  merged  in 
the  splendour  of  that  indefinite  abstraction,  "  His  coming  1" 

As  I  do  not  mean  here  to  treat  this  subject  further  than  to  throw  some  light  upon 
the  present  edition,  and  especially  upon  one  division  of  it,  I  shall  spare  myself  and  the 
reader  the  trouble  of  considering  the  imagination  as  it  deals  with  thoughts  and  senti- 
ments, as  it  regulates  the  composition  of  characters,  and  determines  the  course  of 
actions:  I  will  not  consider  it  (more  than  I  have  already  done  by  implication)  as  that 
power  which,  in  the  language  of  ne  of  my  most  esteemed  friends,  "draws  all  things  to 
one,  which  makes  things  animate  or  inanimate,  beings  with  their  attributes,  subjects 
with  their  accessories,  take  one  colour  and  serve  to  one  effect.  "*  The  grand  store-houses 
of  enthusiastic  and  meditative  imagination,  of  poetical,  as  contradistinguished  from 
human  and  dramatic  imagination,  are  the  prophetic  and  lyrical  parts  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  the  works  of  Milton,  to  which  I  cannot  forbear  to  add  those  of  Spenser. 
I  select  these  writers  in  preference  to  those  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  because  the 
anthropomorphitism  of  the  Pagan  religion  subjected  the  minds  of  the  greatest  poets  in 
those  countries  too  much  to  the  bondage  of  definite  form  ;  from  which  the  Hebrews  were 
preserved  by  their  abhorrence  of  idolatry.  This  abhorrence  was  almost  as  strong  in 
our  great  epic  poet,  both  from  circumstances  of  his  life,  and  from  the  constitution  of  his 
mind.  However  imbued  the  surface  might  be  with  classical  literature,  he  was  a  Hebrew 
in  soul ;  and  all  things  tended  in  him  towards  the  sublime.  Spenser,  of  a  gentler 
nature,  maintained  his  freedom  by  aid  of  his  allegorical  spirit,  at  one  time  inciting  him 
to  create  persons  out  of  abstractions  ;  and,  at  another,  by  a  superior  effort  of  genius,  to 
give  the  universality  and  permanence  of  abstractions  to  his  human  beings,  by  means  of 
attributes  and  emblems  that  belong  to  the  highest  moral  truths  and  the  purest  sen- 
sations,— of  which  his  character  of  Una  is  a  glorious  example.  Of  the  human  and 
dramatic  imagination  the  works  of  Shakespeare  are  an  inexhaustible  source. 

"  I  tax  not  you,  ye  elements,  with  unkindness  ; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdoms,  called  you  daughters  !" 

And  if,  bearing  in  mind  the  many  poets  distinguished  by  this  prime  quality,  whose 
names  I  omit  to  mention  ;  yet  justified  by  a  recollection  of  the  insults  which  the  igno- 
rant, the  incapable,  and  the  presumptuous,  have  heaped  upon  these  and  my  other 
writings,  I  may  be  permitted  to  anticipate  the  judgment  of  posterity  upon  myself;  I 
shall  declare  (censurable,  I  grant,  if  the  notoriety  of  the  fact  above  stated  does  not 
justify  me)  that  I  have  given,  in  these  unfavourable  times,  evidence  of  exertions  of  this 
faculty  upon  its  worthiest  objects,  the  external  universe,  the  moral  and  religious  senti- 
ments of  man,  his  natural  affections,  and  his  acquired  passions  ;  which  have  the  same 
ennobling  tendency  as  the  productions  of  men,  in  this  kind,  worthy  to  be  holden  in 
undying  remembrance. 

I  dismiss  this  subject  with  observing— that,  in  the  series  of  poems  placed  under  the 

*  Charles  Lamb  upon  the  genius  of  Hogarth. 


•r>no  PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION'  OF  1815. 

head  of  imagination,  I  have  begun  with  one  of  the  earliest  processes  of  nature  in  the 
development  of  this  faculty.  Guided  by  one  of  my  own  primary  consciousnesses,  [ 
have  represented  a  commutation  and  transfer  of  internal  feelings,  co-operating  with 
external  accidents  to  plant,  for  immortality,  images  of  sound  and  sight,  in  the  celestial 
soil  of  the  imagination.  The  boy,  there  introduced,  is  listening,  with  something  of  a 
feverish  and  restless  anxiety,  for  the  recurrence  of  the  riotous  sounds  which  he  had  pre- 
viously excited  ;  and,  at  the  moment  when  the  intenseness  of  his  mind  is  beginning  to 
remit,  he  is  surprised  into  a  perception  of  the  solemn  and  tranquillizing  images  which 
the  poem  describes.— The  poems  next  in  succession  exhibit  the  faculty  exerting  itself 
upon  various  objects  of  the  external  universe  ,  then  follow  others,  where  it  is  employed 
upon  feelings,  characters,  and  actions  ;*  and  the  class  is  concluded  with  imaginative 
pictures  of  moral,  political,   and  religious  sentiments. 

To  the  mode  in  which  fancy  has  already  been  characterised  as  the  power  of  evoking 
and  combining,  or,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Coleridge  has  styled  it,  "the  aggregative  and 
associative  power,''  my  objection  is  only  that  the  definition  is  too  general  To  aggregate 
and  to  associate,  to  evoke  and  to  combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  imagination  as  to  the 
fancy  ;  but  either  the  materials  evoked  and  combined  are  different  ;  or  they  are  brought 
together  under  a  different  law,  and  for  a  different  purpose.  Fancy  does  not  require 
that  the  materials  which  she  makes  use  of  should  be  susceptible  of  change  in  their  con- 
stitution, from  her  touch  :  and,  where  they  admit  of  modification,  it  is  enough  for  her 
purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited,  and  evanescent.  Directly  the  reverse  of  these,  are  the 
desires  and  demands  of  the  imagination.  She  recoils  from  everything  but  the  plastic 
the  pliant,  and  the  indefinite.     She  leaves  it  to  fancy  to  describe  Queen  Mabas  coming, 

"In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman." 

Having  to  speak  of  stature,  she  does  not  tell  you  that  her  gigantic  angel  was  as  tall  as, 
Pompey's  Pillar  ;  much  less  that  he  was  twelve  cubits,  or  twelve  hundred  cubits  high  ; 
di  that  his  dimensions  equalled  those  of  Teneriffe  or  Atlas  ;— because  these,  and  if  they 
were  a  million  times  as  high,  it  would  be  the  same,  are  bounded.  The  expression  is 
'  His  stature  reached  the  sky  !"  the  illimitable  firmament  ! — When  the  imagination 
frames  a  comparison,  if  it  does  not  strike  on  the  first  presentation,  a  sense  of  the  truth 
of  the  likeness,  from  the  moment  that  it  is  perceived  grows — and  continues  to  grow — 
upon  the  mind  ;  the  resemblance  depending  less  upon  outline  of  form  and  feature  than 
upon  expression  and  effect,  less  upon  casual  and  outstanding,  than  upon  inherent  and 
internal  properties  : — moreover,  the  images  invariably  modify  each  other. — The  law 
under  which  the  processes  of  fancy  are  carried  on  is  as  capricious  as  the  accidents  of 
things,  and  the  effects  are  surprising,  playful,  ludicrous,  amusing,  tender,  or  pathetic, 
as  the  objects  happen  to  be  appositely  produced  or  fortunately  combined  Fancy 
depends  upon  the  rapidity  and  profusion  with  which  she  scatters  her  thoughts  and  images, 
trusting  that  their  number  and  the  facility  with  which  they  are  linked  together,  will  make 
amends  for  the  want  of  individual  value  :  or  she  prides  herself  upon  the  subtilty  and 
the  successful  elaboration  with  which  she  can  detect  their  lurking  affinities.  II  she 
can  win  you  over  to  her  purpose,  and  impart  to  you  her  feelings,  she  cares  not  how 
unstable  or  transitory  may  be  her  influence,  knowing  that  it  will  not  be  out  of  her  power 
to  resume  it  upon  an  apt  occasion.  But  the  imagination  is  conscious  of  an  indestruc- 
tible dominion  ; — the  soul  may  fall  away  from  it,  not  being  able  to  sustain  us  grandeur ; 
but,  if  once  felt  and  acknowledged,  by  no  act  of  any  other  faculty  of  the  mind  can  it 
be  relaxed,  impaired,  or  diminished. — Fancy  is  given  to  quicken  and  to  beguile  the 
temporal  part  of  our  nature,  imagination  to  incite  and  to  support  the  eternal.  Yet  is  it 
not  the  less  true  that  fancy,  as  she  is  an  active,  is  also,  under  her  own  laws  and  in  her 
own  spirit,  a  creative  faculty.  In  what  manner  fancy  ambitiously  aims  at  a  rivalship 
with  the  imagination,  and  imagination  stoops  to  work  with  the  materials  of  fancy, 
might  be  illustrated  from  the  compositions  of  all  eloquent  writers,  whether  in  prose  01 
verse  ;  and  chiefly  from  those  of  our  own  country.     Scarcely  a  page  of  the  impassioned 

*  In  the  present  edition,  such  of  these  as  were  furnished  by  Scottish  subjects  are  incorporate 
with  a  class  entitled,    '  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland." 


Pimi'.WE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815.  K91 

p.xi  is  of  Bishop  Taylor's  works  can  be  opened  that  shall  not  afford  examples.  Referring 
the  reader  to  those  inestimable  volumes,  I  will  content  myself  with  placing  a  conceit 
(ascribed  to  Lord  Chesterfield)  in  contrast  with  a  passage  from  the  "  Paradise  Lost"  : — 

"The  dews  of  the  evening  most  carefully  shun, 
They  are  the  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun." 

After  the  transgression  of  Adam,  Milton,  with  other  appearances  of  sympathising 
nature,  thus  marks  the  immediate  consequence, 

"  Sky  lowered,  and  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completion  of  the  mortal  sin." 

The  associating  link  is  the  same  in  each  instance  ;  dew  or  rain  not  distinguishable  from 
the  liquid  substance  ol  tears,  are  employed  as  indications  of  sorrow.  A  Hash  of  sur- 
prise is  the  effect  in  the  former  case,  a  flash  of  surprise  and  nothing  more  ;  for  the 
nature  of  things  does  not  sustain  the  combination.  In  the  latter,  the  effects  of  the  act, 
of  which  there  is  this  immediate  consequence  and  visible  sign,  are  so  momentous,  that 
the  mind  acknowledges  the  justice  and  reasonableness  of  the  sympathy  in  nature  so 
manifested  ;  and  the  sky  weeps  drops  of  water  as  if  with  human  eyes,  as  "earth  had, 
before,  trembled  from  her  entrails,  and  nature  given  a  second  groan." 

Awe-stricken  as  I  am  by  contemplating  the  operations  of  the  mind  of  this  tnily 
divine  poet,  I  scarcely  dare  venture  to  add  that  "An  Address  to  an  Infant,"  which  the 
reader  will  find  under  the  class  of  Fancy  in  the  present  edition,  exhibits  something  of 
this  communion  and  interchange  of  instruments  and  functions  between  the  two  powers-, 
and  is  accordingly  placed  last  in  the  class,  as  a  preparation  for  that  of  imagination, 
which  follows. 

Finally,  I  will  refer  to  Cotton's  "Ode  upon  Winter,"  an  admirable  composition, 
though  stained  with  some  peculiarities  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  for  a.  general 
illustration  of  the  characteristics  of  fancy.  The  middle  part  of  this  ode  contains  a 
most  lively  description  of  the  entrance  of  winter,  with  his  retinue,  as  "  a  palsied  king," 
and  yet  a  military  monarch,  advancing  for  conquest  with  his  army  ;  the  several  bodies 
of  which,  and  their  arms  and  equipments,  are  described  with  a  rapidity  of  detail,  and  a 
profusion  of  fanciful  comparisons,  which  indicate  on  the  part  of  the  poet  extreme 
activity  of  intellect,  and  a  corresponding  hurry  of  delightful  feeling.  Winter  retires 
from  the  foe  into  his  fortress,  where 

"  a  magazine 
Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in  : 
Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain 
Should  Phoebus  ne'er  return  again." 

Though  myself  a  water-drinker,  I  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  transcribing  what 
follows,  as  an  instance  still  more  happy  of  fancy  employed  in  the  treatment  of  feeling 
than,  in  its  preceding  passages,  the  poem  supplies  of  her  management  of  forms — 

'"Tis  that  that  gives  the  poet  rage, 
And  thaws  the  jellied  blood  of  age  ; 
Matures  the  young,  restores  the  old, 
And  makes  the  fainting  coward  bold. 

"  It  lays  the  careful  head  to  rest, 
Calms  palpitations  in  the  breast, 
Renders  our  lives'  misfortune  sweet; 

"Then  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow, 
And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow, 
<  >r  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore, 
And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar. 


5°2  PREFACE  TO  TEE  EDITION  OF  1815. 

"  Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit ; 
Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home; 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

"  We'll  think  of  all  the  friends  we  knov, 
And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to  ; 
When  having  drunk  all  thine  and  mine, 
We  rather  shall  want  healths  than  win/- 

'  But  wnere  friends  fail  us,  we'll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity  ; 
Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 
Shall  by  our  lusty  brimmers  thrive. 

"  We'll  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth. 
And  those  that  languish  into  health, 
The  afflicted  into  joy  ;  the  opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

"  The  worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
Favour  return  again  more  kind, 
And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie, 
Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

"  The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success, 
The  lovers  shall  have  mistresses, 
Poor  unregarded  virtue,  praise, 
And  the  neglected  poet,  bays. 

"  Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good. 
Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would  ; 
For,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 
What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are  ?" 

It  remains  that  I  should  express  my  regret  at  the  necessity  of  separating  my  comr*? 
Oitions  from  some  beautiful  poems  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  with  which  they  have  been  long 
associated  in  publication.  The  feelings  with  which  that  joint  publication  was  made, 
have  been  gratified  ;  its  end  is  answered,  and  the  time  is  come  when  considerations  of 
general  propriety  dictate  the  separation.  Three  short  pieces  (now  first  published)  are 
the  work  of  a  female  friend  [his  sister  Dora]  ;  and  the  reader,  to  whom  they  may  be 
acceptable,  is  indebted  to  me  for  his  pleasure  ;  if  any  one  regard  them  with  dislike,  or 
be  disposed  to  condemn  them,  let  the  censure  fall  upon  him,  who,  trusting  in  his  own 
sense  of  their  merit  and  their  fitness  for  the  place  which  they  occupy,  extorted  them 
irom  the  authoress. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  Tht,  PRETACE. 


With  the  young  of  both  sexes,  poetry  is,  like  love,  a  passion  ;  but,  for  much  the 
greater  part  of  those  who  have  been  proud  of  its  power  over  their  minds,  a  necessity 
soon  arises  of  breaking  the  pleasing  bondage  :  or  it  relaxes  of  itself  ;  the  thoughts 
being  occupied  in  domestic  care,  or  the:  time  engrossed  by  business.  Poetry  then 
becomes  only  an  occasional  recreation  ;  while  to  those  whose  existence  passes  away  in 
a  course  of  fashionable  pleasure,  it  is  a  species  of  luxurious  amusement.  In  middle 
and  declining  age,  a  scattered  number  of  serious  persons  resort  to  poetry,  as  to  religion, 
for  a  protection  against  the  pressure  of  trivial  employments,  and  as  a  consolation  foi 
the  afflictions  of  life.  And,  lastly,  there  are  many,  who,  having  been  enamoured  ol 
this  art  in  their  youth,  have  found  leisure,  after  youth  was  spent,  to  cultivate  genera) 
literature  ;  in  which  poetry  has  continued  to  be  comprehended  as  a  study. 

Into  the  above  classes  the  readers  of  poetry  may  be  divided  ;  critics  abound  in  them 
all  ;  but  from  the  last  only  can  opinions  be  collected  of  absolute  value,  and  worthy  to 
be  depended  upon,  as  prophetic  of  the  destiny  of  a  new  work.  The  young,  who  in 
nothing  can  escape  delusion,  are  especially  subject  to  it  in  their  intercourse  with  poetry. 
The  cause,  not  so  obvious  as  the  fact  is  unquestionable,  is  the  same  as  that  from  which 
erroneous  judgments  in  this  art,  in  the  minds  of  men  of  all  ages,  chiefly  proceed  ;  but 
upon  youth  it  operates  with  peculiar  force.  The  appropriate  business  of  poetry  (which 
nevertheless,  if  genuine,  is  as  permanent  as  pure  science)  her  appropriate  employment, 
her  privilege  and  her  duty,  is  to  treat  of  things  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear ;  not 
as  they  exist  in  themselves,  but  as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the  senses  and  to  the  passions. 
What  a  world  of  delusion  does  this  acknowledged  principle  prepare  for  the  inexperi- 
enced !  what  temptations  to  go  astray  are  here  held  forth  for  them  whose  thoughts 
have  been  little  disciplined  by  the  understanding,  and  whose  feelings  revolt  from  the 
sway  of  reason  ! — When  a  juvenile  reader  is  in  the  height  of  his  rapture  with  some 
vicious  passage,  should  experience  throw  in  doubts,  or  common-sense  suggest  suspicions, 
a  lurking  consciousness  that  the  realities  of  the  muse  are  but  shows,  and  that  her 
liveliest  excitements  are  raised  by  transient  shocks  of  conflicting  feeling  and  successive 
assemblages  of  contradictor)'  thoughts — is  ever  at  hand  to  justify  extravagance,  and  to 
sanction  absurdity.  But,  it  may  be  asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable,  and,  no 
doubt,  eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a  process,  what  good  can  be  gained  by  making 
observations,  the  tendency  of  which  is  to  diminish  the  confidence  of  youth  in  its 
feelings,  and  thus  to  abridge  its  innocent  and  even  profitable  pleasures  ?  The  reproach 
implied  in  the  question  could  not  be  warded  off,  if  youth  were  incapable  of  being  de- 
lighted with  what  is  truly  excellent  ;  or,  if  these  errors  always  terminated  of  themselves 
in  due  season.  But,  with  the  majority,  though  their  force  be  abated,  they  continue 
through  life.  Moreover,  the  fire  of  youth  is  too  vivacious  an  element  to  be  extinguished 
or  damped  by  a  philosophical  remark  ;  and,  while  there  is  no  danger  that  what  has 
been  said  will  be  injurious  or  painful  to  the  ardent  and  the  confident,  it  may  prove 
beneficial  to  those  who,  being  enthusiastic,  are,  at  the  same  time,  modest  and  ingenuous. 
The  intimation  may  unite  with  their  own  misgivings  to  regulate  their  sensibility,  and 
to  bring  in,  sooner  than  it  would  otherwise  have  arrived,  a  more  discreet  and  sound 
judgment. 

If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability,  in  later  life,  whose  understandings  have 
been  rendered  acute  by  practice  in  affairs,  should  be  so  easily  and  so  far  imposed  upon 
when  they  happen  to  take  up  a  new  work  in  verse,  this  appears  to  be  the  cause  ; — that, 


594  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

having  discontinued  their  attention  to  poetry,  wnatever  progress  may  have  been  made  in 
other  departments  of  knowledge,  they  have  not,  as  to  this  art,  advanced  in  true  discernment 
beyond  the  age  of  youth.  If,  then,  a  new  poem  falls  in  their  way,  whose  attractions  are 
of  that  kind  which  would  have  enraptured  them  during  the  heat  of  youth,  the  judgment 
not  being  improved  to  a  degree  that  they  shall  be  disgusted,  they  are  dazzled  ;  and  prize 
and  cherish  the  faults  for  having  had  power  to  make  the  present  time  vanish  before 
them,  and  to  throw  the  mind  back,  as  by  enchantment,  into  the  happiest  season  of  life. 
As  they  read,  powers  seem  to  be  revived,  passions  are  regenerated,  and  pleasures 
restored.  The  book  was  probably  taken  up  after  an  escape  from  the  burthen  of  business, 
and  with  a  wish  to  forget  the  world,  and  all  its  vexations  and  anxieties.  Having 
obtained  this  wish,  and  so  much  more,  it  is  natural  that  they  should  make  report  as  they 
have  felt. 

If  men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  practice,  be  thus  easily  beguiled  into  admiration 
of  absurdities,  extravagances,  and  misplaced  ornaments,  thinking  it  proper  that  their 
understandings  should  enjoy  a  holiday,  while  they  are  unbending  their  minds  with  verse, 
it  may  be  expected  that  such  readers  will  resemble  their  former  selves  also  in  strength 
of  prejudice,  and  an  inaptitude  to  be  moved  by  the  unostentatious  beauties  of  a  pure 
style.  In  the  higher  poetry,  an  enlightened  critic  chiefly  looks  for  a  reflection  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  heart  and  the  grandeur  of  the  imagination.  Wherever  these  appear, 
simplicity  accompanies  them  ;  magnificence  herself,  when  legitimate,  depending  upon  a 
simplicity  of  her  own,  to  regulate  her  ornaments.  But  it  is  a  well-known  property  of 
human  nature,  that  our  estimates  are  ever  governed  by  comparisons,  of  which  we  are 
conscious,  with  various  degrees  of  distinctness.  Is  it  not,  then,  inevitable  (confining 
these  observations  to  the  effects  of  style  merely)  that  an  eye,  accustomed  to  the  glaring 
hues  of  diction  by  which  such  readers  are  caught  and  excited,  will  for  the  most  part  be 
rather  repelled  than  attracted  by  an  original  work,  the  colouring  of  which  is  disposed 
according  to  a  pure  and  refined  scheme  of  harmony?  It  is  in  the  fine  arts  as  in  the 
affairs  of  life,  no  man  can  serve  (i.e.,  obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity)  two  masters. 

As  poetry  is  most  just  to  its  own  divine  origin  when  it  administers  the  comforts  and 
breathes  the  spirit  of  religion,  they  who  have  learned  to  perceive  this  truth,  and  who 
betake  themselves  to  reading  verse  for  sacred  purposes,  must  be  preserved  from  numerous 
Elusions  to  which  the  two  classes  of  readers,  whom  we  have  been  considering,  are 
liable.  But,  as  the  mind  grows  serious  from  the  weight  of  life,  the  range  of  its  passions 
is  contracted  accordingly  ;  and  its  sympathies  become  so  exclusive,  that  many  species  of 
high  excellence  wholly  escape,  or  but  languidly  excite,  its  notice.  Besides,  men  who 
read  from  religious  or  moral  inclinations,  even  when  the  subject  is  of  that  kind  which 
they  approve,  are  beset  with  misconceptions  and  mistakes  peculiar  to  themselves. 
Attaching  so  much  importance  to  the  truths  which  interest  them,  they  are  prone  to  over- 
rate the  authors  by  whom  these  truths  are  expressed  and  enforced.  They  come  prepared 
to  impart  so  much  passion  to  the  poet's  language,  that  they  remain  unconscious  how 
little,  in  fact,  they  receive  from  it.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  religious  faith  is 
to  him  who  holds  it  so  momentous  a  thing,  and  error  appears  to  be  attended  with  such 
tremendous  consequences,  that,  if  opinions  touching  upon  religion  occur  which  the 
reader  condemns,  he  not  only  cannot  sympathise  with  them,  however  animated  the 
expression,  but  there  is,  for  the  most  part,  an  end  put  to  all  satisfaction  and  enjoyment. 
Love,  if  it  before  existed,  is  converted  into  dislike  ;  and  the  heart  of  the  reader  is  set 
against  the  author  and  his  book. — To  these  excesses,  they,  who  from  their  professions 
ought  to  be  the  most  guarded  against  them,  are  perhaps  the  most  liable  ;  1  mean  those 
sects  whose  religion,  being  from  the  calculating  understanding,  is  cold  and  formal 
For  when  Christianity,  the  religion  of  humility,  is  founded  upon  the  proudest  faculty  of 
our  nature,  what  can  be  expected  but  contradictions  ?  Accordingly,  believers  of  this 
cast  are  at  one  time  contemptuous  ;  at  another,  being  troubled  as  they  are,  and  must  be, 
with  inward  misgivings,  they  are  jealous  and  suspicious  ; — and  at  all  seasons,  they  are 
under  temptation  to  supply,  by  the  heat  with  which  they  defend  their  tenets,  the  anima- 
tion which  is  wanting  to  the  constitution  of  the  religion  itself. 

Faith  was  given  to  man  that  his  affections,  detached  from  the  treasures  of  time,  might 
be  inclined  to  settle  upon  those  of  eternity  : — the  elevation  of  his  natiare,  which  this  habit 
produces  on  earth,  being  to  him  a  presumptive  evidence  of  a  future  state  of  existence; 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE.  595 

and  giving  him  a  title  to  partake  of  its  holiness.  The  religious  man  values  whnt  he 
sees  chief!)  as  an  "  imperfect  shadowing  forth '  of  what  he  is  incapable  of  seeing.  The 
concerns  oi  religion  refer  to  indefinite  objecl  >,  and  arc  too  weighty  lor  the  mind  to  <  upporl 
them  without  relieving  itself  by  resting  a  great  pari  oi  the  burden  upon  words  and 
symbols.     The  commerce   between  Man  and  Ins  Maker  cannot   l>e  carried    on   but 

by  a  process  where  much  is  n  presented  in  little,  and  the  Infinite  Being  accommodates 
himself  to  a  finite  capacity.  In  all  this  ma)  be  perceived  the  affinity  between  religion 
auA  poetry  ;— between  religion  making  up  the  deficiencies  ol  reason  by  iaith  ,  and  poetry 
ionate  for  the  instruction  of  reason,  between  religion — whose  clement  is  infinitude. 
and  whose  ultimate  trust  is  the  supreme  ol  things,  submitting  herself  to  circumscription 
and  reconciled  to  substitutions  ;  and  poetry— ethereal  and  transcendent,  yet  incapable  to 
sustain  her  existence  without  sensuous  incarnation.  In  this  community  of  nature  may 
be  perceived  also  the  lurking  incitements  oi  kindred  error  ; — so  that  we  shall  find  that  no 

poetrj  re  subject  to  distortion,    -than  that  species,  the  argument  and  scope 

of  which  is  religious  ;  and  no  lovers  of  the  art  have  gone  farther  astray  than  the  piou? 
and  the  devout. 

Whither  then  shall  we  turn  for  that  union  of  qualifications  which  must  necessarily 
exist  before  the  decisions  of  a  critic  can  be  of  absolute  value?  For  a  mind  at  once 
poetical  and  philosophical  ;  for  a  critic  whose  affections  are  as  free  and  kindly  as  the 
spirit  of  society,  and  whose  understanding  is  severe  as  that  of  dispassionate  government  t 
Where  are  we  to  look  for  that  initiatory  composure  of  mind  which  no  selfishness  can 
disturb  ?  For  a  natural  sensibility  that  has  been  tutored  into  correctness  without  losing 
anything  of  its  quickness  :  and  for  active  faculties  capable  of  answering  the  demands 
which  an  author  of  original  imagination  shall  make  upon  them, — associated  with  a 
judgment  that  cannot  be  duped  into  admiration  by  aught  that  is  unworthy  of  it  ? — 
Among  those  and  those  only,  who,  never  having  suffered  their  youthful  love  of  poetry 
to  remit  much  of  its  iorce,  have  applied  to  the  consideration  of  the  laws  of  this  art  the 
best  power  of  their  understandings.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  observed — that,  as 
this  class  comprehends  the  only  judgments  which  are  trustworthy,  so  does  it  include  the 
most  erroneous  and  perverse.  For  to  be  mis-taught  is  worse  than  to  be  untaught ;  and 
no  perverseness  equals  that  which  is  supported  by  system,  no  errors  are  so  difficult  to 
root  out  as  those  which  the  understanding  has  pledged  its  credit  to  uphold.  In  this 
class  are  contained  censors,  who,  if  they  be  pleased  with  what  is  good,  are  pleased  with 
it  only  by  imperfect  glimpses,  and  upon  false  principles  ,  who,  should  they  generalise 
rightly  to  a  certain  point,  are  sure  to  suffer  for  it  in  the  end  ; — who,  if  they  stumble  upon 
a  sound  rule,  are  fettered  by  misapplying  it,  or  by  straining  it  too  far  ;  being  incapable 
of  perceiving  when  it  ought  to  yield  to  one  of  higher  order.  In  it  are  found  critics  too 
petulant  to  be  passive  to  a  genuine  poet,  and  too  feeble  to  grapple  with  him  ;  men,  who 
take  upon  them  to  report  of  the  course  which  he  holds  whom  they  are  utterly  unable  to 
accompany, — confounded  if  he  turn  quick  upon  the  wing,  dismayed  if  he  soar 
steadily  "into  the  region;'' — men  of  palsied  imaginations  and  indurated  hearts  ;  in 
M/hose  minds  all  healthy  action  is  languid,— who  therefore  ieed  as  the  many  direct 
fbem,  or,  with  the  many,  are  greedy  after  vicious  provocatives  ; — judges,  whose  censure 
^auspicious,  and  whose  praise  ominous  !     In  this  class  meet  together  the  two  extremes 

f  best  and  worst. 
The  observations  presented  in  the  foregoing  series  are  of  too  ungracious  a  nature  to 
have  been  made  without  reluctance  ;  and,  were  it  only  on  this  account,  I  would  invite 
the  reader  to  try  them  by  the  test  of  comprehensive  experience.  If  the  number  of  judges 
who  can  be  confidently  relied  upon  be  in  reality  so  small,  it  ought  to  follow  that  partia' 
notice  only,  or  neglect,  perhaps  long  continued,  or  attention  wholly  inadequate  to  theit 
merits — must  have  been  the  fate  of  most  works  in  the  higher  departments  of  poetry  ;  and 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  numerous  productions  have  blazed  into  popularity,  and  have 
passed  away,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  behind  them  : — it  will  be  further  found,  and  when 
authors  have,  al  length,  raised  themselves  into  general  admiration  and  maintained  their 
ground,  errors  and  prejudices  have  prevailed  concerning  their  genius  and  their  works, 
which  the  few  who  are  conscious  of  those  errors  and  prejudices  would  deplore  ;  if  they 
were  not  recompensed  by  perceiving  that  there  are  select  spirits  for  whom  it  is  ordained 
that  their  fame  shall  be  in  the  world  an  existence  like  that  of  virtue,  which  owss  its 


596  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

being  to  the  struggles  it  makes,  and  its  vigour  to  the  enemies  whom  it  provokes  ; — a 
vivacious  quality,  ever  doomed  to  meet  with  opposition,  and  still  triumphing  over  it ; 
and,  from  the  nature  of  its  dominion,  incapable  of  being  brought  to  the  sad  conclusion 
of  Alexander,  when  he  wept  that  there  were  no  more  worlds  for  him  to  conquer. 

Let  us  take  a  hasty  retrospect  of  the  poetical  literature  of  this  country  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  last  two  centuries,  and  see  if  the  facts  support  these  inferences. 

Who  is  there  that  can  now  endure  to  read  "  The  Creation  "  of  Dubartas  ?  Yet  all 
Europe  once  resounded  with  his  praise  ;  he  was  caressed  by  kings  ;  and,  when  his  poem 
was  translated  into  our  language,  "  The  Faery  Queen"  faded  before  it.  The  name  of 
Spenser,  whose  genius  is  of  a  higher  order  than  even  that  of  Ariosto,  is  at  this  day 
scarcely  known  beyond  the  limits  of  the  British  Isles.  And  if  the  value  of  his  works  is 
to  be  estimated  from  the  attention  now  paid  to  them  by  his  countrymen,  compared  with 
that  which  they  bestow  on  those  of  some  other  writers,  it  must  be  pronounced  small 
indeed. 

"The  laurel  meed  of  mighty  conquerors 
And  poets  sage" 

are  his  own  words  ;  but  his  wisdom  has,  in  this  particular,  been  his  worst  enemy  ; 
while  its  opposite,  whether  in  the  shape  of  folly  or  madness,  has  been  their  best  friend. 
But  he  was  a  great  power ;  and  bears  a  high  name  :  the  laurel  has  been  awarded 
to  him. 

A  dramatic  author,  if  he  write  for  the  stage,  must  adapt  himself  to  the  taste  of  the 
audience,  or  they  will  not  endure  him  ;  accordingly  the  mighty  genius  of  Shakspeare 
was  listened  to.  The  people  were  delighted  ;  but  I  am  not  sufficiently  versed  in 
stage  antiquities  to  determine  whether  they  did  not  flock  as  eagerly  to  the  representation 
of  hiany  pieces  of  contemporary  authors,  wholly  undeserving  to  appear  upon  the  same 
boards.  Had  there  been  a  formal  contest  for  superiority  among  dramatic  writers,  that 
Shakspeare,  like  his  predecessors,  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  would  have  often  been 
subject  to  the  mortification  of  seeing  the  prize  adjudged  to  sorry  competitors,  becomes 
too  probable,  when  we  reflect  that  the  admirers  of  Settle  and  Shadwell  were,  in  a  later 
age,  as  numerous,  and  reckoned  as  respectable  in  point  of  talent,  as  those  of  Dryden. 
At  all  events,  that  Shakspeare  stooped  to  accommodate  himself  to  the  people,  is  suffi- 
ciently apparent  ;  and  one  of  the  most  striking  proofs  of  his  almost  omnipotent  genius, 
is,  that  he  could  turn  to  such  glorious  purpose  those  materials  which  the  prepossessions 
of  the  age  compelled  him  to  make  use  of.  Yet  even  this  marvellous  skill  appears  not  to 
have  be.-n  enough  to  prevent  his  rivals  from  having  some  advantage  over  him  in  public 
estimation  ;  else  how  can  we  account  for  passages  and  scenes  that  exist  in  his  works, 
unless  upon  a  supposition  that  some  of  the  grossest  of  them,  a  fact  which  in  my  own 
mind  I  have  no  doubt  of,  were  foisted  in  by  the  players,  for  the  gratification  of  the 
many  ? 

But  that  his  works,  whatever  might  be  their  reception  on  the  stage,  made  little  im- 
pression upon  the  ruling  intellects  of  the  time,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  Lord 
Bacon,  in  his  multifarious  writings,  nowhere  either  quotes  or  alludes  to  him.* — His 
dramatic  excellence  enabled  him  to  resume  possession  of  the  stage  after  the  Restoration  ; 
but  Dryden  tells  us  that  in  his  time  two  of  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were 
acted  for  one  of  Shakspeare.  And  so  faint  and  limited  was  the  perception  of  the  poetic 
beauties  of  his  dramas  in  the  time  of  Pope,  that,  in  his  edition  of  the  plays,  with  a  view 
of  rendering  to  the  general  reader  a  necessary  service,  he  printed  between  inverted  com- 
mas those  passages  which  he  thought  most  worthy  of  notice. 

At  this  day,  the  French  critics  have  abated  nothing  of  their  aversion  to  this  darling 
of  our  nation:  "the  English,  with  their  buffon  de  Shakspeare,"  is  as  familiar  an 
expression  among  them  as  in  the  time  of  Voltaire.  Baron  Grimm  is  the  only  Frencrj 
writer  who  seems  to  have  perceived  his  infinite  superiority  to  the  first  names  of  the  French 

*  The  learned  Hakewill  fa  third  edition  of  whose  book  bears  date  1635),  writing  to  refute  the 
error  "  touching  nature's  perpetual  and  universal  decay,"  cites  triumphantly  the  names  of  Ariosto, 
Tasso.  Cartas,  and  Spenser,  as  instances  that  poetic  genius  had  not  degenerated  ;  but  he  makes 
no  mention  of  Shakspeare. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE.  597 

theatre  ;  an  advantage  which  the  Parisian  critic  owed  to  his  German  blood  and  German 
education.  The  most  enlightened  Italians,  though  well  acquainted  with  our  language, 
are  wholly  incompetent  to  measure  the  proportions  of  Shakspeare.  The  Germans  only, 
of  foreign  nations,  are  approaching  towards  a  knowledge  and  feeling  of  what  he  is.  In 
some  respects  they  have  acquired  a  superiority  over  the  fellow-countrymen  of  the  poet  : 
for  among  us  it  is  a  current,  I  might  say,  an  established  opinion,  that  Shakspeare  is 
justly  praised  when  he  is  pronounced  to  be  "a  wild,  irregular  genius,  in  whom  great 
faults  are  compensated  by  great  beauties."  How  long  may  it  be  before  this  misconcep- 
tion passes  away,  and  it  becomes  universally  acknowledged  that  the  judgment  of 
Shakspeare  in  the  selection  of  his  materials,  and  in  the  manner  in  which  he  has  made 
them,  heterogeneous  as  they  often  are,  constitute  a  unity  of  their  own,  and  contribute 
all  to  one  great  end,  is  not  less  admirable  than  his  imagination,  his  invention,  and  his 
intuitive  knowledge  of  human  nature  ! 

There  is  extant  a  small  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems  in  which  Shakspeare  expresses 
his  own  feelings  in  his  own  person.  It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  editor,  George 
Steevens,  should  have  been  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  one  portion  of  that  volume,  the 
Sonnets  ;  though  there  is  not  a  part  of  the  writings  of  this  poet  where  is  found,  in  an 
equal  compass,  a  greater  number  of  exquisite  feelings  felicitously  expressed.  But, 
from  regard  to  the  critic's  own  credit,  he  would  not  have  ventured  to  talk  of  an  act 
of  parliament  not  being  strong  enough  to  compel  the  pemsal  of  these,*  or  any  pro- 
duction of  Shakspeare,  if  he  had  not  known  that  the  people  of  England  were  igno- 
rant of  the  treasures  contained  in  those  little  pieces  ;  and  if  he  had  not,  moreover, 
shared  the  too  common  propensity  of  human  nature  to  exult  over  a  supposed  fall  into 
the  mire  of  a  genius  whom  he  had  been  compelled  to  regard  with  admiration,  as  an 
inmate  of  the  celestial  regions — "  there  sitting  where  he  durst  not  soar." 

Nine  years  before  the  death  of  Shakspeare,  Milton  was  born  ;  and  early  in  life  he  pub- 
lished several  small  poems,  whi  ch,  though  on  their  first  appearance  they  were  praised 
by  a  few  of  the  judicious,  were  aiterwards  neglected  to  that  degree,  that  Pope,  in 
his  youth,  could  pilfer  from  them  without  danger  of  detection.  Whether  these  poems 
are  at  this  day  justly  appreciated  I  will  not  undertake  to  decide  ;  nor  would  it  imply  a 
severe  reflection  upon  the  mass  of  readers  to  suppose  the  contrary  ;  seeing  that  a  man  of 
the  acknowledged  genius  of  Voss,  the  German  poet,  could  suffer  their  spirit  to  evaporate 
and  could  change  their  character,  as  is  done  in  the  translation  made  by  him  of  the  most 
popular  of  those  pieces.  At  all  events,  it  is  certain  that  these  poems  of  Milton  are  now 
much  read,  and  loudly  praised  ;  yet  they  were  little  heard  of  till  more  than  150  years 
after  their  publication  ;  and  of  the  Sonnets,  Dr.  Johnson,  as  appears  from  Boswell's  life 
of  him,  was  in  the  habit  of  thinking  and  speaking  as  contemptuously  as  Steevens  wrote 
upon  those  of  Shakspeare. 

About  the  time  when  the  Pinda  ric  Odes  of  Cowley  and  his  imitators,  and  the  pro- 
ductions of  that  class  of  curious  th  inkers  whom  Dr.  Johnson  has  strangely  styled  meta- 
physical poets,  were  beginning  to  lose  something  of  that  extravagant  admiration  which 
they  had  excited,  "The  Paradise  Lost"  made  its  appearance.  "Fit  audience  find 
though  few,"  was  the  petition  addressed  by  the  poet  to  his  inspiring  muse.  I  have  said 
elsewhere  that  he  gained  more  than  he  asked  ;  this  1  believe  to  be  true  ;  but  Dr.  John- 
son has  fallen  into  a  gross  mistake  when  he  attempts  to  prove,  by  the  sale  ol  the  work, 
that  Milton's  countrymen  were  "just  to  it"  upon  its  first  appearance.  Thirteen 
hundred  copies  were  sold  in  two  years  ;  an  uncommon  example,  he  asserts,  ol  the 
prevalence  of  genius  in  opposition  to  so  much  recent  enmity  as  Milton's  public  conduct 
had  excited.  But,  be  it  remembered  that,  if  Milton's  political  and  religious  opinions  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  announced  them,  had  raised  him  many  enemies,  they  had 
procured  him  numerous  friends  ;  who,  as  all  personal  danger  was  passed  away  at  the 
time  of  publication,  would  be  eager  to  procure  the  master-work  of  a  man  whom  they 
revered,  and  whom  they  would  be  proud  o(  praising.     The  demand  did  not  immediately 


"  This  flippant  insensibility  was  publicly  reprehended  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  in  a  course  of  Lectures 
upon  Poetry,  given  by  him  at  the  Royal  Institution.  For  the  various  merits  of  thought  and 
language  in  Shakspeare's  Sonnets  see  Numbers  27,  29,  30,  32,  33,  54,  64.  66,  68,  73,  7°,  86,  91,  qa, 
93.  0?,  tS.  ic-s,  107,  108,  109    in,  113,  114.  116,  117,  120,  and  many  Others. 


593  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

increase;  "for,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  many  more  readers  "  (he  means  persons  in  the 
habit  of  reading  poetry)  "  than  were  supplied  at  first  the  nation  did  not  afford."  How 
careless  must  a  writer  be  who  can  make  this  assertion  in  the  face  of  so  many  existing 
title-pages  to  belie  it  !  Turning  to  my  own  shelves,  I  find  the  folio  of  Cowley,  7th 
Edition,  16S1.  A  book  near  it  is  Flatman's  Poems,  4th  Edition,  1686.  Waller,  5th 
Edition,  same  date.  The  poems  of  Norris  of  Bemerton  not  long  after  went,  I  believe, 
through  nine  editions.  What  further  demand  there  might  be  for  these  works  1  do  not 
know,  but  1  well  remember,  that  twenty-five  years  ago,  the  booksellers'  stalls  in  London 
swarmed  with  the  folios  of  Cowley.  This  is  not  mentioned  in  disparagement  of  that 
able  writer  and  amiable  man  ;  but  merely  to  show — that,  if  Milton's  work  was  not  more 
read,  it  was  not  because  readers  did  not  exist  at  the  time.  The  early  editions  of  "The 
Paradise  Lost  "  were  printed  in  a  shape  which  allowed  them  to  be  sold  at  a  low  price, 
yet  only  3000  copies  of  the  work  were  sold  in  eleven  years  ;  and  the  nation,  says  Dr. 
Johnson,  had  been  satisfied  from  1623  to  1644,  that  is,  forty-one  years,  with  only  two 
editions  of  the  works  of  Shakspeare  ;  which  probably  did  not  together  make  1000 
copies;  facts  adduced  by  the  critic  to  prove  the  "paucity  of  readers."  There  were 
readers  in  multitudes  ;  but  their  money  went  for  other  purposes,  as  their  admiration 
was  fixed  elsewhere.  We  are  authorised,  then,  to  affirm  that  the  reception  of  "The 
paradise  Lost,"  and  the  slow  progress  of  its  fame,  are  proofs  as  striking  as  can  be 
desired  that  the  positions  which  I  am  attempting  to  establish  are  not  erroneous.'' — How 
amusing  to  shape  to  one's  self  such  a  critique  as  a  wit  of  Charles's  days,  or  a  lord  of  the 
miscellanies  or  trading  journalist  of  King  William's  time,  would  have  brought  forth,  if 
he  had  set  his  faculties  industriously  to  work  upon  this  poem,  every  where  impregnated 
with  original  excellence ! 

So  strange,  indeed,  are  the  obliquities  of  admiration,  that  they  whose  opinions  are  much 
influenced  by  authority  will  often  be  tempted  to  think  that  there  are  no  fixed  principlest 
in  human  nature  for  this  art  to  rest  upon.  I  have  been  honoured  by  being  permitted  to 
peruse,  in  MS.,  a  tract  composed  between  the  period  of  the  Revolution  and  the  close  of 
that  century.  It  is  the  work  of  an  English  peer  of  high  accomplishments,  its  object  to 
form  the  character  and  direct  the  studies  of  his  son.  Perhaps  nowhere  does  a  more 
beautiful  treatise  of  the  kind  exist.  The  good  sense  and  wisdom  of  the  thoughts,  the 
delicacy  of  the  feelings,  and  the  charm  of  the  style,  are,  throughout,  equally  conspicuous. 
Yet  the  author,  selecting  among  the  poets  of  his  own  country  those  whom  he  deems 
most  worthy  of  his  son's  perusal,  particularises  only  Lord  Rochester,  Sir  John  Denham, 
and  Cowley.  Writing  about  the  same  time,  Shaftesbury,  an  author  at  present  unjustly 
depreciated,  describes  the  English  muses  as  only  yet  lisping  in  their  cradles. 

The  arts  by  which  Pope,  soon  afterwards,  contrived  to  procure  to  himself  a  more 
eneral  and  a  higher  reputation  than  perhaps  any  English  poet  ever  attained  during 
his  life-time,  are  known  to  the  judicious.  And  as  well  known  is  it  to  them,  that  the 
undue  exertion  of  these  arts  is  the  cause  why  Pope  has  for  some  time  held  a  rank  in 
literature,  to  which,  if  he  had  not  been  seduced  by  an  over-love  of  immediate  popularity, 
and  had  confided  more  in  his  native  genius,  he  never  could  have  descended.  He 
bewitched  the  nation  by  his  melody,  and  dazzled  it  by  his  polished  style,  and  was  him- 
self blinded  by  his  own  success.  Having  wandered  from  humanity  in  his  Eclogues 
with  boyish  inexperience,  the  praise,  which  these  compositions  obtained,  tempted  him 
into  a  belief  that  nature  was  not  to  be  trusted,  at  least  in  pastoral  poetry.  To  prove 
this  by  example,  he  put  his  friend  Gay  upon  writing  those  Eclogues  which  the  author 
intended  to  be  burlesque.  The  instigator  of  the  work,  and  his  admirers,  could  perceive 
in  them  nothing  but  what  was  ridiculous.  Nevertheless,  though  these  poems  contain 
some  detestable  passages,  the  effect,  as  Dr.  Johnson  well  observes,  "of  reality  and  truth 
became  conspicuous,  even  when  the  intention  was  to  show  them  grovelling  and  degraded. " 
These  pastorals,   ludicrous  to  those  who  prided  themselves  upon  their  refinement,  in 


*  Hughes  is  express  upon  this  subject :  in  his  dedication  of  Spenser's  Works  to  Lord  Seiners, 
he  writes  thus: — "  It  was  your  lordship's  encouraging  a  beautiful  edition  of  '  Paradise  Lost' 
that  first  brought  that  incomparable  poem  to  be  generally  known  and  esteemed." 

t  This  opinion  seems  actually  to  have  been  entertained  by  Adam  Smith,  the  worst  critic,  David 
Hume  not  excepted,  that  Scotland,  .1  soil  to  which  this  sort  of  weed  seems  natural,  has  produced. 


ESSAY  SUrPLEMENTAIiY  TO  THE  PREFACE.  509 

spite  of  those  disgusting  passages,  "became  popular,  and  were  read  with  delight,  as 
just  representations  of  rural  manners  and  occupations." 

Something  less  than  sixty  years  after  the  publication  of  "The  Paradise  Lost," 
appeared  Thomson's  "  Winter ;"  which  was  speedily  followed  by  his  other  Seasons. 
[t  Is  a  work  of  inspiration  ;  much  of  it  is  written  from  himself,  and  nobly  from  himself. 
How  was  it  received  ?  "  It  was  no  sooner  read,"  said  one  of  his  contemporary  biogra- 
phers, "  than  universally  admired  :  those  only  excepted  who  had  not  been  u  i  d  to  Ire], 
or  to  look  for  anything  in  poetry,  beyond  a  point  of  satirical  or  epigrammatic  wit,  a 
smart  antithesis  richly  trimmed  with  rhyme,  or  the  softness  of  an  elegiac  complaint. 
To  such  his  manly  classical  spirit  could  not  readily  commend  itself;  till,  after  a  more 
attentive  perusal,  they  had  got  the  better  of  their  prejudices,  and  either  acquired  or 
affected  a  truer  taste.  A  few  others  stood  aloof,  merely  because  they  had  long  before 
fixed  the  articles  of  their  poetical  creed,  and  resigned  themselves  to  an  absolute  despair 
of  ever  seeing  anything  new  and  original.  These  were  somewhat  mortified  to  find  their 
notions  disturbed  by  the  appearance  of  a  poet,  who  seemed  to  owe  nothing  but  to 
nature  and  his  own  genius.  But,  in  a  short  time,  the  applause  became  unanimous; 
every  one  wondering  how  so  many  pictures,  and  pictures  so  familiar,  should  have  moved 
them  but  faintly  to  what  they  felt  in  his  descriptions.  His  digressions  too,  the  over- 
flowings of  a  tender  benevolent  heart,  charmed  the  reader  no  less  ;  leaving  him  in 
doubt,  whether  he  should  more  admire  the  poet  or  love  the  man." 

This  case  appears  to  bear  strongly  against  us : — but  we  must  distinguish  between 
wonder  and  legitimate  admiration.  The  subject  of  the  work  is  the  changes  produced 
in  the  appearances  of  nature  by  the  revolution  of  the  year  :  and  by  undertaking  to  write 
in  verse,  Thomson  pledged  himself  to  treat  his  subject  as  became  a  poet.  Now  it  is 
rem. likable  that,  excepting  thenocturnal  reverie  of  Lady  Winchelsea,  and  apassage  or  two 
in  the  "Windsor  Forest"  of  Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  period  intervening  between 
the  publication  of  "  The  Paradise  Lost"  and  "The  Seasons"  does  not  contain  a  single 
new  image  of  external  nature  ;  and  scarcely  presents  a  familiar  one,  from  which  it  can 
be  inferred  that  the  eye  of  the  poet  had  been  steadily  fixed  upon  his  object,  much  less 
that  his  feelings  had  urged  him  to  work  upon  it  in  the  spirit  of  genuine  imagination. 
To  what  a  low  state  knowledge  of  the  most  obvious  and  important  phenomena  had 
sunk,  is  evident  from  the  style  in  which  Dryden  has  executed  a  description  of  night  in 
one  of  his  tragedies,  and  Pope  his  translation  of  the  celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the 
"Iliad."  A  blind  man,  in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to  descriptions  casually 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  those  around  him,  might  easily  depict  these  appearances  with 
more  truth.  Dryden's  lines  are  vague,  bombastic,  and  senseless  ;*  those  of  Pope, 
though  he  had  Homer  to  guide  him,  are  throughout  false  and  contradictory.  The 
verses  of  Dryden,  once  highly  celebrated,  are  forgotten  ;  those  of  Pope  still  retain  their 
ho!d  upon  public  estimation, — nay,  there  is  not  a  passage  of  descriptive  poetry,  which 
at  this  day  finds  so  many  and  such  ardent  admirers.  Strange  to  think  of  an  enthusiast, 
as  may  have  been  the  case  with  thousands,  reciting  those  verses  under  the  cope 
of  a  moonlight  sky,  without  having  his  raptures  in  the  least  disturbed  by  a  suspicion  of 
their  absurdity  !  If  these  two  distinguished  writers  could  habitually  think  that  the 
visible  universe  was  of  so  little  consequence  to  a  poet,  that  it  was  scarcely  necessary  for 
him  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  it,  we  may  be  assured  that  those  passages  of  the  elder  poets 
which  faithfully  and  poetically  describe  the  phenomena  of  nature,  were  not  at  that  time 
holden  in  much  estimation,  and  that  there  was  little  accurate  attention  paid  to  these 
appearances. 

Wonder  is  the  natural  product  of  ignorance  ;  and  as  the  soil  was  in  suck  good  con- 


*  "  Cortes  {atone  in  a  night-gown). 
All  things  are  hushed  as  nature's  self  lay  dead  : 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  head  : 
The  little  birds  in  dreams  their  songs  repeat, 
And  sleeping  flowers  beneath  the  night-dew  sweat : 
Even  lust  and  envy  sleep  ;  yet  love  denies 
Rest  to  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes." 

—  Dryden's  India-:  Emf>eror. 


600  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

dition  at  the  time  of  the  publication  of  ' '  The  Seasons, "  the  crop  was  doubtless  abundant. 
Neither  individuals  nor  nations  become  corrupt  all  at  once,  nor  are  they  enlightened  in 
a  moment.  Thomson  was  an  inspired  poet,  but  he  could  not  work  miracles  ;  in  cases 
where  the  art  of  seeing  had  in  some  degree  been  learned,  the  teacher  would  further  the 
proficiency  of  his  pupils,  but  he  could  do  little  more,  though  so  far  does  vanity 
assist  men  in  acts  of  self-deception,  that  many  would  often  fancy  they  recognised  a  like- 
ness when  they  knew  nothing  of  the  original.  Having  shown  that  much  of  what 
his  biographer  deemed  genuine  admiration  must  in  fact  have  been  blind  wonderment, — 
how  is  the  rest  to  be  accounted  for? — Thomson  was  fortunate  in  the  very  title  of  his 
poem,  which  seemed  to  bring  it  home  to  the  prepared  sympathies  of  every  one  :  in  the 
next  place,  notwithstanding  his  high  powers,  he  writes  a  vicious  style  ;  and  his  false 
ornaments  are  exactly  of  that  kind  which  would  be  most  likely  to  strike  the  undis- 
cerning.  He  likewise  abounds  with  sentimental  common-places,  that,  from  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  brought  forward,  bore  an  imposing  air  of  novelty.  In  any 
well-used  copy  of  "  The  Seasons"  the  book  generally  opens  of  itself  with  the  rhapsody 
on  love,  or  with  one  of  the  stories  (perhaps  Damon  and  Musidora)  ;  these  also  are  pro- 
minent in  our  collections  of  extracts  ;  and  are  the  parts  of  his  work,  which,  after  all, 
were  probably  most  efficient  in  first  recommending  the  author  to  general  notice.  Pope, 
repaying  praises  which  he  had  received,  and  wishing  to  extol  him  to  the  highest,  only 
styles  him  "an  elegant  and  philosophical  poet;"  nor  are  we  able  to  collect  any 
unquestionable  proofs  that  the  true  characteristics  of  Thomson's  genius  as  an  imagina- 
tive poat  *  were  perceived  till  the  eider  Warton,  almost  forty  years  after  the  publication 
of  "  The  Seasons,"  pointed  them  out  by  a  note  in  his  "  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Writings 
of  Pope."  In  "The  Castle  of  Indolence"  (of  which  Gray  speaks  so  coldly)  these 
characteristics  were  almost  as  conspicuously  displayed,  and  in  verse  more  harmonious, 
and  diction  more  pure.  Yet  that  fine  poem  was  neglected  on  its  appearance,  and  is  at 
this  day  the  delight  only  of  a  few  ! 

When  Thomson  died,  Collins  breathed  his  regrets  into  an  elegiac  form,  in  which  he 
pronounces  a  poetical  curse  upon  him  who  should  regard  with  insensibility  the 
place  where  the  poet's  remains  were  deposited.  The  poems  of  the  mourner  himself 
hare  now  passed  through  innumerable  editions,  and  are  universally  known  ,  but  if,  when 
Collins  died,  the  same  kind  of  imprecation  had  been  pronounced  by  a  surviving 
admirer,  small  is  the  number  whom  it  would  not  have  comprehended.  The  notice 
which  his  poems  attained  during  his  life-time  was  so  small,  and  of  course  the  sale  so 
insignificant,  that  not  long  before  his  death  he  deemed  it  right  to  repay  to  the  bookseller 
the  sum  which  he  had  advanced  for  them,  and  threw  the  edition  into  the  fire. 

Next  in  importance  to  "  The  Seasons"  of  Thomson,  though  at  considerable  distance 
from  that  work  in  order  of  time,  come  "  The  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry ;"  col- 
lected, new-modelled,  and  in  many  instances  (if  such  a  contradiction  in  terms  may  be 
used)  composed  by  the  editor,  Dr.  Percy.  This  work  did  not  steal  silently  into 
the  world,  as  is  evident  from  the  number  of  legendary  tales,  which  appeared  not  long 
after  its  publication  ;  and  which  were  modelled,  as  the  authors  persuaded  themselves, 
after  the  old  ballad.  The  compilation  was,  however,  ill  suited  to  the  then  existing  taste 
of  city  society  ;  and  Dr.  Johnson,  mid  the  little  senate  to  which  he  gave  laws,  was  not 
sparing  in  his  exertions  to  make  it  an  object  of  contempt.  The  critic  triumphed, 
the  legendary  imitators  were  deservedly  disregarded,  and,  as  undeservedly,  their 
ill-imitated  models  sank,  in  this  country,  into  temporary  neglect ;  while  Burger, 
and  other  able  writers  of  Germany,  were  translating  or  imitating  these  Reliques,  and 
composing,  with  the  aid  of  inspiration  thence  derived,  poems  which  are  the  delight  of 
the  German  nation.  Dr.  Percy  was  so  abashed  by  the  ridicule  flung  upon  his  labours 
from  the  ignorance  and  insensibility  of  the  persons  with  whom  he  lived,  that  though, 
while  he  was  writing  under  a  mask,  he  had  not  wanted  resolution  to  follow  his  genius 
into  the  regions  of  true  simplicity  and  genuine  pathos  (as  is  evinced  by  the  exquisite 

*  Since  these  observations  upon  Thomson  were  written,  I  have  perused  the  second  edition  of 
his  "  Seasons,"  and  find  that  even  that  does  not  contain  the  most  striking  passages  which  Warton 
points  out  for  admiration  .  these,  with  other  improvements,  throughout  the  whole  work,  must  have 
been  added  at  a  later  period. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE.  801 

ballad  of  Sir  Cauline,  and  by  many  other  pieces),  yet  when  he  appeared  in  his 
own  person  anil  character  as  a  poetical  writer,  he  adopted,  as  in  the  tale  of  the 
"  Hermit  of  Warkworth,"  a  diction  scarcely  in  any  one  of  its  features  distinguishable  from 
the  vague,  the  glossy,  and  unfeeling  language  of  Ins  day.  I  mention  this  remarkable 
fact*  with  regret,  esteeming  the  genius  of  Dr.  Percy  in  this  kind  of  writing  superior  to 
thai  ol  any  oilier  man  by  whom  in  modern  times  it  has  been  cultivated.  That  even 
Burger  (to  whom  Klopstock  gave  in  my  heaiing,  a  commendation  which  he  denied  to 
Goethe  and  Schiller,  pronouncing  him  to  be  a  genuine  poet,  and  one  of  the  few  among 
the  Germans  whose  works  would  last)  had  not  the  tine  sensibility  of  Percy,  might  be 
shown  from  many  passages,  in  which  he  has  deserted  his  original  only  to  go  astray.  For 
example — 

"  Now  daye  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 
And  all  were  last  asleepe, 

All  save  the  Lady  Kineline, 
Who  sate  in  her  bowre  to  weepe  : 

"And  soonc  she  heard  her  true-love's  voice 
Low  whispering  at  the  walle, 
'Awake,  awake,  my  dear  tadye 
"l'is  I  thy  true-love  call.'" 

Which  is  thus  tricked  out  and  dilated  : — 

"  Als  nun  die  Nacht  Gebirg'  und  Thai 
Vermummt  in  Rabenschatten, 
Und  Hochburgs  Lampen  ubcrall 
Schon  ausgeflimmert  batten, 
Und  alles  tief  entschalafen  war  : 
Doch  nur  das  Fraulein  immerdar, 
Voll  Fieberangst,  noch  wachte, 
Und  seinen  Ritter  dachte  : 
Da  horch  !  Ein  siisser  Liebeston 
Kam  leis'  empor  geflogen. 
'  Ho,  Triidchen,  ho  !  Da  bin  ich  schon ! 
Frisch  auf !  Dich  angezogen !'  " 

But  from  humble  ballads  we  must  ascend  to  heroics. 

All  hail,  Macpherson  !  hail  to  thee,  sire  of  Ossian  !  The  phantom  was  begotten  by 
the  snug  embrace  of  an  impudent  Highlander  upon  a  cloud  of  tradition — it  travelled 
southward,  where  it  was  greeted  with  acclamation,  and  the  thin  consistence  took 
its  course  through  Europe,  upon  the  breath  of  popular  applause.  The  editor  of 
"The  Reliqucs"  had  indirectly  preferred  a  claim  to  the  praise  of  invention,  by  not  con- 
cealing that  his  supplementary  labours  were  considerable  •  how  selfish  his  conduct,  con- 
trasted with  that  of  the  disinterested  Gael,  who,  like  Lear,  gives  his  kingdom  away,  and 
is  content  to  become  a  pensioner  upon  his  own  issue  for  a  beggarly  pittance  !  Open  this 
far-famed  book  !  I  have  done  so  at  random,  and  the  beginning  of  the  epic  poem 
Tcmora,  in  eight  books,  presents  itself.  "  The  blue  waves  of  Ullin  roll  in  light.  The 
green  hills  are  covered  with  day.  Trees  shake  their  dusky  heads  in  the  breeze.  Gray 
torrents  pour  their  noisy  streams.  Two  green  hills  with  aged  oaks  surround  a  narrow 
plain.  The  blue  course  of  a  stream  is  there.  On  its  banks  stood  Cairbar  of  Atha.  His 
spear  supports  the  king  ;  the  red  eyes  of  his  fear  are  sad.  Cormac  rises  on  his  soul 
with  all  his  ghastly  wounds."  Precious  memorandums  from  the  pocket-book  of 
the  blind  Ossian  ! 

If  it  be  unbecoming,  as   I  acknowledge   that   for  the  most   part   it  is,   to   speat 

*  Shenstone.  in  his  "Schoolmistress,"  give,  a  still  more  remarkable  instance  of  this  timidity. 
On  its  first  appearance  See  Disraeli's  second  series  of  "The  Curiosities  of  Literature"),  the 
poem  was  accompanied  with  an  absurd  prose  commentary,  showing,  as  indeed  some  incongruous 
expressions  in  the  text  imply,  that  the  whole  was  intended  for  burlesque  In  subsequent  editions, 
the  commentary  was  dropped,  and  the  people  have  since  continued  to  read  in  seriousness,  doing 
for  the  author  what  he  had  not  courage  openly  to  venture  upon  for  himself. 


602  ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

disrespectfully  of  works  that  have  enjoyed  for  a  length  of  time  a  widely-spread  reputa- 
tion, without  at  the  same  time  producing  irrefragable  proofs  of  their  unworthiness,  let 
me  be  forgiven  upon  this  occasion.  Having  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  and 
reared  in  a  mountainous  country,  from  my  very  childhood  I  have  felt  the  falsehood  that 
pervades  the  volumes  imposed  upon  the  world  under  the  name  of  Ossian.  From  what 
I  saw  with  my  own  eyes,  I  knew  that  the  imagery  was  spurious.  In  nature  everything 
is  distinct,  yet  nothing  defined  into  absolute  independent  singleness.  In  Macpherson's 
work  it  is  exactly  the  reverse  ;  everything  (that  is  not  stolen)  is  in  this  manner  defined, 
insulated,  dislocated,  deadened,— yet  nothing  distinct.  It  will  always  be  so  when 
words  are  substituted  for  things.  To  say  that  the  characters  never  could  exist,  that  the 
manners  are  impossible,  and  that  a  dream  has  more  substance  than  the  whole  state  of 
society,  as  there  depicted,  is  doing  nothing  more  than  pronouncing  a  censure  which 
Macpherson  defied ;  when  with  the  steeps  of  Morven  before  his  eyes,  he  could  talk  so 
familiarly  of  his  car-borne  heroes  ; — of  Morven,  which,  if  one  may  judge  of  its  appear- 
ance at  the  distance  of  a  few  miles,  contains  scarcely  an  acre  of  ground  sufficiently 
accommodating  for  a  sledge  to  be  trailed  along  its  surface. — Mr.  Malcolm  Laing  has 
ably  shown  that  the  diction  of  this  pretended  translation  is  a  motley  assemblage  from 
all  quarters  ;  but  he  is  so  fond  of  making  out  parallel  passages  as  to  call  poor 
Macpherson  to  account  for  his  very  "  ands"  and  his  "  buts!"  and  he  has  weakened  his 
argument  by  conducting  it  as  if  he  thought  that  every  striking  resemblance  was  a  con- 
scious plagiarism.  It  is  enough  that  the  coincidences  are  too  remarkable  for  its  being 
probable  or  possible  that  they  could  arise  in  different  minds  without  communication 
between  them.  Now  as  the  Translators  of  the  Bible,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Pope, 
could  not  be  indebted  to  Macpherson,  it  follows  that  he  must  have  owed  his  fine 
feathers  to  them  ;  unless  we  are  prepared  gravely  to  assert,  with  Madame  de  Stael,  that 
many  of  the  characteristic  beauties  of  our  most  celebrated  English  poets  are  derived 
from  the  ancient  Fingallian  ;  in  which  case  the  modern  translator  would  have  been  but 
giving  back  to  Ossian  his  own.  It  is  consistent  that  Lucien  Buonaparte,  who  could 
censure  Milton  for  having  surrounded  Satan  in  the  infernal  regions  with  courtly 
and  regal  splendour,  should  pronounce  the  modern  Ossian  to  be  the  glory  of  Scotland ; 
— a  country  that  has  produced  a  Dunbar,  a  Buchanan,  a  Thomson,  and  a  Burns. 
These  opinions  are  of  ill  omen  for  the  epic  ambition  of  him  who  has  given  them  to  the 
World. 

Yet,  much  as  these  pretended  treasures  of  antiquity  have  been  admired,  they  have 
been  wholly  uninfluential  upon  the  literature  of  the  country.  No  succeeding  writer 
appears  to  have  caught  from  them  a  ray  of  inspiration  ;  no  author,  in  the  least  dis- 
tinguished, has  ventured  formally  to  imitate  them— except  the  boy,  Chatterton,  on  their 
first  appearance.  He  had  perceived,  from  the  successful  trials  which  he  himself  had 
made  in  literary  forgery,  how  few  critics  were  able  to  distinguish  between  a  real  ancient 
medal  and  a  counterfeit  of  modern  manufacture  ;  and  he  set  himself  to  the  work  of 
filling  a  magazine  with  Saxon  poems, — counterparts  of  those  of  Ossian,  as  like  his  as  one 
of  his  misty  stars  is  to  another.  This  incapability  to  amalgamate  with  the  literature  of  the 
island,  is,  in  my  estimation,  a  decisive  proof  that  the  book  is  essentially  unnatural ;  nor 
should  I  require  any  other  to  demonstrate  it  to  be  a  forgery,  audacious  as  worthless. — 
Contrast,  in  this  respect,  the  effect  of  Macpherson's  publication  with  the  Reliques  of 
Percy,  so  unassuming,  so  modest  in  their  pretensions  ! — I  have  already  stated  how  much 
Germany  is  indebted  to  this  latter  work  ;  and  for  our  own  country,  its  poetry  has  been 
absolutely  redeemed  by  it.  I  do  not  think  that  thene  is  an  able  writer  in  verse  of  the 
present  day  who  would  not  be  proud  to  acknowledge  his  obligations  to  the  Reliques  ;  I 
know  that  it  is  so  with  my  friends  ;  and,  for  myself,  I  am  happy  on  this  occasion  to  make 
a  public  avowal  of  my  own. 

Dr.  Johnson,  more  fortunate  in  his  contempt  of  the  labours  of  Macpherson  than 
those  of  his  modest  friend,  was  solicited  not  long  after  to  furnish  prefaces,  biographical 
and  critical,  for  the  works  of  some  of  the  most  eminent  English  poets.  The  booksellers 
took  upon  themselves  to  make  the  collection  :  they  referred  probably  to  the  most  popu- 
lar miscellanies,  and,  unquestionably,  to  their  books  of  accounts  ;  and  decided  upon  the 
claim  of  authors  to  be  admitted  into  a  body  of  the  most  eminent,  from  the  familiarity  of 
their  names  with  the  readers  of  that  day,  and  by  the  profits,  which,  from  the  sale  of  bis 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE.  603 

works,  each  had  brought  and  was  bringing  to  the  trade.  The  editor  was  allowed  a 
limited  exercise  of  discretion,  and  the  authors  whom  he  recommended  are  scarcely  to  be 
mentioned  without  a  smile.  We  open  the  volume  of  prefatory  lives,  and  to  our  astonish- 
ment thejirst  name  we  find  is  that  of  Cowley  ! — What  is  become  of  the  morning-star  of 
English  poetry  ?  Where  is  the  bright  Elizabethan  constellation  ?  Or,  if  names  be 
more  acceptable  than  images,  where  is  the  ever-to-be-honoured  Chaucer?  where  is 
•Spenser?  where  Sidney?  and,  lastly,  where  he,  whose  rights  as  a  poet,  contradistin- 
guished from  those  which  he  is  universally  allowed  to  possess  as  a  dramatist,  we  have 
vindicated, — where  Shakspeare?  These  and  a  multitude  of  others  not  unworthy  to  be 
placed  near  them,  their  contemporaries  and  successors,  we  have  not.  But  intheii  stead, 
we  have  (could  better  be  expected  when  precedence  was  to  be  settled  by  an  abstract  of 
reputation  at  any  given  period  made,  as  in  this  case  before  us?)  Roscommon,  and 
Stepney,  and  Phillips,  and  Walsh,  and  Smith,  and  Duke,  and  King,  and  Spratt — 
Halifax,  Granville,  Sheffield,  Congreve,  Broome,  and  other  reputed  magnates;  writers 
in  metre,  utterly  worthless  and  useless,  except  for  occasions  like  the  present,  when  their 
productions  are  referred  to  as  evidence  what  a  small  quantity  of  brain  is  necessary  to 
procure  a  considerable  stock  of  admiration,  provided  the  aspirant  will  accommodate 
himself  to  the  likings  and  fashions  of  his  day. 

As  I  do  not  mean  to  bring  down  this  retrospect  to  our  own  times,  it  may  with  pro- 
priety be  closed  at  the  era  of  this  distinguished  event.  From  the  literature  of  other  ages 
and  countries,  proofs  equally  cogent  might  have  been  adduced,  that  the  opinions 
announced  in  the  former  part  of  this  essay  are  founded  upon  truth.  It  was  not  an 
agreeable  office,  nor  a  prudent  undertaking  to  declare  them  ;  but  their  importance 
seemed  to  render  it  a  duty.  It  may  still  be  asked,  where  lies  the  particular  relation  of 
what  has  been  said  to  these  poems?  The  question  will  be  easily  answered  by  the  dis- 
cerning reader  who  is  old  enough  to  remember  the  taste  that  prevailed  when  some  of 
these  pieces  were  first  published,  seventeen  years  ago  ;  who  has  also  observed  to  what 
degree  the  poetry  of  this  island  has  since  that  period  been  coloured  by  them  ;  and  who 
is  farther  aware  of  the  unremitting  hostility  with  which,  upon  some  principle  or  other, 
they  have  each  and  all  been  opposed.  A  sketch  of  my  own  notion  of  the  constitution  of 
fame  has  been  given  ;  and,  as  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  have  cause  to  be  satisfied.  1  he 
love,  the  admiration,  the  indifference,  the  slight,  the  aversion,  and  even  the  contempt, 
with  which  these  poems  have  been  received,  knowing,  as  I  do,  the  source  within  my 
own  mind,  from  which  they  have  proceeded,  and  the  labour  and  pains  which,  when 
labour  and  pains  appeared  needful,  have  been  bestowed  upon  them,  must  all,  if  I  think 
consistently,  be  received  as  pledges  and  tokens,  bearing  the  same  general  impression, 
though  widely  different  in  value  ; — they  are  all  proofs  that  for  the  present  time  I  have 
not  laboured  in  vain  ;  and  afford  assurances,  more  or  less  authentic,  that  the  products 
of  inv  industry  will  endure. 

rf  there  be  one  conclusion  more  forcibly  pressed  upon  us  than  another  by  the  review 
which  has  been  given  of  the  fortunes  and  fate  of  poetical  works,  it  is  this, — that  every 
author,  as  far  as  he  is  great  and  at  the  same  time  original,  has  had  the  task  of  creating 
the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed  :  so  has  it  been,  so  will  it  continue  to  be.  This 
remark  was  long  since  made  to  me  by  the  philosophical  friend  for  the  separation  of 
whose  poems  from  my  own  I  have  previously  expressed  my  regret.  The  predecessors 
of  an  original  genius  of  a  high  order  will  have  smoothed  the  way  for  all  that  he  has  in 
common  with  them  ;  and  much  he  will  have  in  common  ;  but,  for  what  is  peculiarly  his 
own,  he  will  be  called  upon  to  clear  and  often  to  shape  his  own  road  : — he  will  be  in 
the  condition  of  Hannibal  among  the  Alps. 

And  where  lies  the  real  difficulty  of  creating  that  taste  by  which  a  truly  original  poet 
is  to  be  relished  ?  Is  it  in  breaking  the  bonds  of  custom,  in  overcoming  the  prejudices 
of  false  refinement,  and  displacing  the  aversions  of  inexperience?  Or,  if  he  labour  for 
an  object  which  here  and  elsewhere  1  have  proposed  to  myself,  does  it  consist  in  divest- 
ing the  reader  of  the  pride  that  induces  him  to  dwell  upon  those  points  wherein  men 
differ  from  each  other,  to  the  exclusion  of  those  in  which  all  men  are  alike,  or  the  same  ; 
and  in  making  him  ashamed  of  the  vanity  that  renders  him  insensible  of  the  appropriate 
excellence  which  civil  arrangements,  less  unjust  than  might  appear,  and  nature  illimit- 
able in  her  bounty,  have  conferred  on  men  who  stand  below  him  in  the  scale  of  society  ? 


001         ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

Finally,  does  it  lie  in  establishing  that  dominion  over  the  spirits  of  readers  by  which 
they  are  to  be  humbled  and  humanised,  in  order  that  they  may  be  purified  and  exalted. 

If  these  ends  are  to  be  attained  by  the  mere  communication  of  knowledge,  it  does 
not  lie  here. — Taste,  I  would  remind  the  reader,  like  imagination,  is  a  word  which  has 
been  forced  to  extend  its  services  far  beyond  the  point  to  which  philosophy  would  have 
confined  them.  It  is  a  metaphor,  taken  from  a  passive  sense  of  the  human  body,  and 
transferred  to  things  which  are  in  their  essence  not  passive, — to  intellectual  acts  and 
operations.  The  word,  imagination,  has  been  overstrained,  from  impulses  honourable 
to  mankind,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  faculty  which  is  perhaps  the  noblest  of  our 
nature.  In  the  instance  of  taste,  the  process  has  been  reversed  ;  and  from  the  preva- 
lence of  dispositions  at  on^  injurious  and  discreditable, — being  no  other  than  that  selfish- 
ness which  is  the  child  of  ap«wk,',—  which,  as  nations  decline  in  productive  and  creative 
power,  makes  them  value  themselves  upon  a  presumed  refinement  of  judging.  Poverty 
of  language  is  the  primary  cause  of  the  use  which  we  make  of  the  word,  imagination  ; 
but  the  word,  taste,  has  been  stretched  to  the  sense  that  it  bears  in  modern  Europe  by 
habits  of  self-conceit,  inducing  that  inversion  in  the  order  of  things  whereby  a  passive 
faculty  is  made  paramount  among  the  faculties  conversant  with  the  fine  arts.  Propor- 
tion and  congruity,  the  requisite  knowledge  being  supposed,  are  subjects  upon  which 
taste  may  be  trusted  ;  it  is  competent  to  this  office  ;  for  h.  its  intercourse  with  these  the 
mind  is  passive,  and  is  affected  painfully  or  pleasurably  as  by  an  instinct.  But  the  pro- 
found and  the  exquisite  in  feeling,  the  lofty  and  universal  in  thought  and  imagination  ; 
or,  in  ordinary  language,  the  pathetic  and  the  sublime  ; — are  neither  of  them,  accurately 
speaking,  objects  of  a  faculty  which  could  ever  without  a  sinking  in  the  spirit  of  nations 
have  been  designated  by  the  metaphor — taste.  And  why  ?  Because  without  the  exer- 
tion of  a  co-operating  power  in  the  mind  of  the  reader,  there  can  be  no  adequate  sym- 
pathy with  either  of  these  emotions  :  without  this  auxiliary  impulse  elevated  or  profound 
passion  cannot  exist. 

Passion,  it  must  be  observed,  is  derived  from  a  word  which  signifies  suffering :  but 
the  connection  which  suffering  has  with  effort,  with  exertion,  and  action,  is  immediate 
and  inseparable.  How  strikingly  is  this  property  of  human  nature  exhibited  by  the  fact, 
that,  in  popular  language,  to  be  in  a  passion,  is  to  be  angry  !     But, 

"  Anger  in  hasty  words  or  bloius 
Itself  discharges  on  its  foes." 

To  be  moved,  then,  by  a  passion,  is  to  be  excited,  often  to  external,  and  always  to 
internal,  effort ;  whether  for  the  continuance  and  strengthening  of  the  passion,  or  for 
its  suppression,  accordingly  as  the  course  which  it  takes  may  be  painful  or  pleasureable. 
If  the  latter,  the  soul  must  contribute  to  its  support,  or  it  never  becomes  vivid, — and 
soon  languishes,  and  dies.  And  this  brings  us  to  the  point.  If  every  great  poet  with 
whose  writings  men  are  familiar,  in  the  highest  exercise  of  his  genius,  before  he  can  be 
thoroughly  enjoyed,  has  to  call  forth  and  to  communicate/crow,  thisservice,  in  a  still  greater 
degree,  falls  upon  an  original  writer,  at  his  first  appearance  in  the  world.  Of  genius  the 
only  proof  is,  the  act  of  doing  well  what  is  worthy  to  be  donel  and  what  was  never  done 
before.  Of  genius,  in  the  fine  arts,  the  only  infallible  sign  is  the  widening  the  sphere  of 
human  sensibility,  for  the  delight,  honour,  and  benefit  of  human  nature.  Genius  is  the 
introduction  of  a  new  element  into  the  intellectual  universe  :  or,  if  that  be  not  allowed, 
it  is  the  application  of  powers  to  objects  on  which  they  had  not  before  been  exercised,  or 
the  employment  of  them  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  effects  hitherto  unknown. 
What  is  all  this  but  an  advance,  or  a  conquest,  made  by  the  soul  of  the  poet  ?  Is  it  to 
be  supposed  that  the  reader  can  make  progress  of  this  kind,  like  an  Indian  prince  or 
general— stretched  on  his  palanquin,  and  borne  by  his  slaves  ?  No,  he  is  invigorated 
and  inspirited  by  his  leader,  in  order  that  he  may  exert  himself,  for  he  cannot  proceed 
in  quiescence,  he  cannot  be  carried  like  a  dead  weight.  Therefore,  to  create  taste  is  to 
call  forth  and  bestow  power,  of  which  knowledge  is  the  effect ;  and  thcreYvzs  the  tiue 
difficulty. 

As  the  pathetic  participates  of  an  animal  sensation,  it  might  seem  — that,  if  the 
springs  of  this  emotion  were  genuine,  all  men,   possessed  of  competent   knowledge  of 


ES8AY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE.         605 

the  facts  and  circumstances,  would  be  instantaneously  affected.  And,  doubtless,  in  the 
works  of  everj  true  poet  will  be  found  passages  of  that  species  of  excellence,  which  is 
proved  by  effects  immediate  and  universal.  Bill  there  are  emotions  of  the  pathetic 
thai  are  simple  and  direct,  and  others  that  are  complex  and  revolutionary ;  some— to 
which  the  heart  yields  with  gentleness;  others— against  which  it  struggles  with  pride: 
infinite  as  the  eombin  itions  of  circumstance  and  the  constitution  oi 
icter.  Remember,  also,  that  the  medium  through  which,  in  poetry,  the  heart  is 
lo  be  affected— is  language  ;  a  thing  subject  to  endless  fluctuations  and  arbitrary  asso- 
ciation [hi  genius  of  the  poet  melts  these  down  for  his  purpose;  but  they  retain 
their  shape  and  quality  to  him  who  is  not  capable  of  exerting,  within  his  own  mind,  a 
corresponding  energy.  There  is  also  a  meditative,  as  well  .is  a  human  pathos  ;  an  en- 
thusiastic  as  well  as  an  ordinary,  sorrow ;  a  sadness  that  has  its  seat  in  the  depths  of 
reason,  to  which  the  mind  cannot  sink  gently  of  itself— but  to  which  it  must  descend  by 
treading  the  steps  of  thought.  And  for  the  sublime,— if  we  consider  what  are  the 
cares  that  occupy  the  passing  day,  and  how  remote  is  the  practice  and  the  course  of  life 
from  the  sources  of  sublimity,  in  the  soul  of  man,  can  it  be  wondered  that  there  is  little 
existing  preparation  for  a  poet  charged  with  a  new  mission  to  extend  its  kingdom,  and 
to  augment  and  spread  its  enjoyments? 

Awav,  then,  with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the  word  popular,  applied  to  new  works 
in  poetry,  as  if  there  were  no  test  of  excellence  in  this  first  of  the  fine  arts  but  that  all 
men  should  run  after  his  productions,  as  if  urged  by  an  appetite,  or  constrained  by  a 
spell !— The  qualities  of  writing  best  fitted  for  eager  reception  are  either  such  as  startle 
the  world  into  attention  by  their  audacity  and  extravagance;  or  they  are  chiefly  of  a 
superficial  kind,  lying  upon  the  surfaces  of  manners  ;  or  arising  out  of  a  selection  and 
arrangement  of  incidents,  by  which  the  mind  is  kept  upon  the  stretch  of  curiosity,  and 
the  fancy  amused  without  the  trouble  of  thought.  But  in  every  thing  which  is  to  send 
the  souf  into  herself,  to  be  admonished  i  her  weakness,  or  to  be  made  conscious  of  her 
power  ; — wherever  life  and  nature  are  described  as  operated  upon  by  the  creative  or 
abstracting  virtue  of  the  imagination  ;  wherever  the  instinctive  wisdom  of  antiquity  and 
her  heroic  passions  uniting,  in  the  heart  of  the  poet,  with  the  meditative  wisdom  ot 
later  ages,  have  produced  that  accord  of  sublimated  humanity,  which  is  at  once  a  history 
of  the  remote  past  and  a  prophetic  annunciation  of  the  remotest  future,  there  the  poet 
mu^t  reconcile  himself  for  a  season  to  few  and  scattered  hearers.  Grand  thoughts,  (and 
Shakspeare  must  often  have  sighed  over  this  truth)  as  they  are  most  naturally  and  most 
fitly  conceived  in  solitude,  so  can  they  not  be  brought  forth  in  the  midst  of  plaudits, 
without  some  violation  of  their  sanctity.  Go  to  a  silent  exhibition  of  the  productions  of 
hhe  sister  art,  and  be  convinced  that  the  qualities  which  dazzle  at  first  sight,  and  kindle 
[  the  admiration  of  the  multitude,  are  essentially  different  from  those  by  which  permanent 
influence  is  secured.  Let  us  not  shrink  from  following  up  these  principles  as  far  as  they 
will  carry  us,  and  conclude  with  observing — that  there  never  has  been  a  period,  and 
perhaps  never  will  be,  in  which  vicious  poetry,  of  some  kind  or  other,  has  not  excited 
more  zealous  admiration,  and  been  far  more  generally  read,  than  good;  but  this  ad- 
vantage attends  the  good,  that  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  species,  survives  from  age 
to  age  :  whereas,  of  the  depraved,  though  the  species  be  immortal,  the  individual  quickly 
perishes;  the  object  of  present  admiration  vanishes,  being  supplanted  by  some  other  as 
easily  produced  ;  which,  though  no  better,  brings  with  it  at  least  the  irritation  of  novelty 
— wi'th  adaptation,  more  or  less  skilful,  to  the  changing  humours  of  the  majority  of  those 
who  are  most  at  leisure  to  regard  poetical  works  when  they  first  solicit  their  attention. 
Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer,  the  judgment  of  the 
•  people  is  not  to  be  respected  ?  The  thought  is  most  injurious  ;  and,  could  the  charge 
be  brought  against  him,  he  would  repel  it  with  indignation.  The  people  have  already 
been  justified,  and,  their  eulogium  pronounced  by  implication,  when  it  was  said,  above 
— that,  of  good  poetry,  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  species,  survives.  And  how  doth 
't  survive  but  through  the  people?  what  preserves  it  but  their  intellect  and  their  wisdom? 

"  Past  and  future,  arc  the  wmc;s 

On  whose  support,  harmoniously  conjoined. 
Moves  the  (Treat  Spirit  of  human  knowledge" 

MS. 


606         ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


The  voice  that  issues  from  this  spirit,  is  that  vox  populi  which  the  deity  inspires.  Fool-' 
ish  must  he  be  who  can  mistake  for  this  a  local  acclamation,  or  a  transitory  outcry — 
transitory  though  it  be  for  years,  local  though  for  a  nation.  Still  more  lamentable  is 
his  error  who  can  believe  that  there  is  any  thing  of  divine  infallibility  in  the  clamour  oi 
that  small  though  loud  portion  of  the  community,  ever  governed  by  factitious  influence 
which,  under  the  name  of  the  public,  passes  itself,  upon  the  unthinking,  for  the  people. 
Towards  the  public,  the  writer  hopes  that  he  feels  as  much  deference  as  it  is  entitled  to  •. 
but  to  the  people,  philosophically  characterized,  and  to  the  embodied  spirit  of  their 
knowledge,  so  far  as  it  exists  and  moves,  at  the  present,  faithfully  supported  by  its  two- 
wings,  the  past  and  the  future,  his  devout  respect,  his  reverence,  is  due.  He  offers  it 
Willingly  and  readily  ;  and,  this  done,  takes  leave  of  his  readers,  by  assuring  them — 
that,  if  he  were  not  persuaded  that  the  contents  of  his  works,  evinced  something  of  the 
"  vision  and  the  faculty  divine  ;'*  and  that,  both  in  words  and  things,  they  will  operate 
in  their  degree,  to  extend  the  domain  of  sensibility  for  the  delight,  the  honour,  and  the 
benefit  of  human  nature,  notwithstanding  the  many  happy  hours  which  he  has  em- 
ployed in  their  composition,  and  the  manifold  comforts  and  enjoyments  they  have 
procured  to  him,  he  would  not,  if  a  wish  could  do  it,  save  them  from  immediate 
destruction  ;— from  becoming  at  this  moment,  to  the  world,  as  a  thing  that  had  nevej 
been. 


I 


■ 


PRINTED  BV  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  AND  CO. 
EDINBURGH  AND  LONDON 


873 I 5005 I I 86874 


^ 


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